|       GAREN^ 
l\a  COMMUTER'S 

"  J22t  WIFE  cSOu 


r.  \*r      / 

i 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


r 


t 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR. 

PEOPLE    OF  THE    WHIRLPOOL. 
THE    WOMAN  ERRANT. 


THE    GARDEN 
OF  A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE 


THE  GARDEN 


)F  A  COMMUTER'S  WIFE 


RDED   BY 

THE   GARDENER 


Tfrfn  fork 
THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 


1911 

4U  rigbn  reurvtj 


THE  GARDEN 


OF  A  COMMUTER'S  WIFE 


RECORDED   BY 

THE   GARDENER 


Nefo  gorft 
THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
I9II 

All  rigbtt  reurvtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1901, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1901.  Reprinted  November,  1901 ; 
March,  May,  October,  igoa;  July,  Octobei,  1903;  March,  1904;  March 
June,  1906 ;  June,  September,  1908. ;  February,  1910  ;  January,  1911. 

Special  edition,  in  paper  covers,  May,  June,  twice,  1903. 


Nortooob  $KB« 

.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  A  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PS 
33 

V 

196 


Book  belongs*  to  t^e  Commuter 


CONTENTS 
I 

PAGE 

THE  RETURN i 

II 

CONCERNING  GARDENERS.    IN  GENERAL        .  .      26 

III 
CONCERNING  GARDENERS.    IN  PARTICULAR    ...      38 

IV 
THE  AMERICANIZING  OF  PETER  SCHMIDT       ...      53 

V 
A  RAINY  DAY.    MORNING 74 

VI 

A  RAINY  DAY.    AFTERNOON  ......     90 

VII 

A  BIRTHDAY  BREAKFAST         ..,„.,.    105 

VIII 

SETTING  THE  SUNDIAL 123 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

IX 

PACK 

CHIEFLY  DOMESTIC 141 

X 

WINTER.    THE  GARDEN  OF  BOOKS  .    166 

XI 

THE  TERRIBLE  TEMPTATION 192 

XII 
PLANTING 221 

XIII 
JUNE.    OLD  ROSES  WORTH  GROWING     ....    244 

XIV 
JULY.    THE  BED  OF  SWEET  ODOURS      ....    268 

XV 
AUGUST.    A  PLEA  FOR  A  WILD  LAWN  .        .       .       .291 

XVI 
SEPTEMBER.    THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS      .       .       .312 

XVII 
THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  MARTHA  CORKLB  ...    334 

XVIII 
OCTOBER.    THE  YEAR'S  MIND 347 


The 
Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife 


i 

THE   RETURN 

October  23  (Battle  of  Leipsic,  1642,  according  to 
the  Farmers'  Almanac.  I  never  could  understand 
the  relationship  between  the  astronomy,  history,  and 
literature  in  this  volume).  To-day  I  began  the  plant- 
ing of  my  garden.  The  combination  of  date  and  deed 
may  seem  strange  to  those  who  do  not  know ;  but  as 
gardening  is  the  most  exacting  as  well  as  the  most 
exciting  of  outdoor  sports,  one  cannot  begin  too  early 
in  the  season,  and  it  is  really  better  to  begin  the  sea- 
son before.  Neither  a  garden  nor  a  gardener  can 
be  made  in  one  year,  nor  in  one  generation  even.  It 
takes  a  fine  sort  of  heredity  of  air  and  soil  and  envi- 
ronment for  either;  also  gardening  is  the  most  cheer- 
ful and  satisfactory  pursuit  for  women  who  love 
outdoors.  Field  and  forest  often  hold  one  at  bay. 


2  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

We  may  admire,  worship,  love,  but  neither  advise  nor 
argue  with  them  nor  add  one  cubit  to  their  stature. 
In  a  garden  one's  personality  can  come  forth,  stick  a 
finger  into  Nature's  pie,  and  lend  a  hand  in  the  mak- 
ing of  it,  besides  furnishing  many  of  the  ingredients. 

I  have  been  planting  crocuses  in  the  grass  borders 
all  the  morning,  stabbing  the  turf  with  a  pointed 
spade  handle,  yclept  dibble,  and  pushing  the  sturdy 
little  bulbs  deep  into  the  wounds.  In  April  there 
will  be  a  cluster  of  starry  flowers  to  cover  each  scar. 
Fortunately  my  backbone  is  largely  composed  of 
New  England  granite,  or  it  would  ache.  As  it  is,  I 
am  very  glad  to  sit  on  a  great  heap  of  dry  leaves 
under  the  south  wall  and  write  in  my  garden  book 
while  the  cart  has  gone  over  to  the  pit  by  the  river 
to  bring  back  a  load  of  sand  for  my  tulips  and 
hyacinths. 

A  "  Boke  of  the  Garden  "  is  a  necessity ;  otherwise, 
so  kind  is  memory  about  disagreeables,  one  forgets 
one's  mistakes.  I  am  sure  that  I  should  have  for- 
gotten a  very  bad  one  of  mine  and  have  planted  my 
bulbs  in  the  long  strip  in  front  of  the  honeysuckle 
trellis,  but  for  the  finding  last  night,  in  an  old  desk, 
of  one  of  my  schoolgirl  journals  in  which  garden 
items  and  the  sentiments  of  eighteen  were  impartially 
mixed.  Under  April  20,  it  said :  "  Never  plant  bulbs 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  3 

at  the  foot  of  the  garden ;  the  water  settles  and  the 
mice  come  out  of  the  wall  and  eat  them  or  they  rot. 
I've  only  three  hyacinths  and  four  tulips  left,  but 
then  I  didn't  plant  very  many.  When  I  marry  I'm 
going  to  push  all  the  vegetables  over  the  fence  into 
the  field  and  have  nothing  but  flowers  here,  and  I'm 
going  to  buy  bulbs  and  roses  by  the  hundred  instead 
of  by  sixes.  .  .  .  Pocket  money  doesn't  go  far  for 
plants  when  I  have  to  buy  gloves  out  of  it  to  wear  to 
that  stupid  dancing  class  and  have  such  very  warm 
hands.  Aunt  Lot  promised  that  I  should  join,  and  I 
couldn't  go  back  on  one  of  the  family.  But  of 
course  when  I'm  married  I  shall  be  too  old  for  that 
sort  of  thing,  which  will  be  a  great  economy  besides 
letting  me  grub  in  peace.  .  .  .  Aunt  Lot  says  that 
I  shall  have  changed  my  mind  by  then." 

That  was  seven  years  ago,  and  lo  and  behold,  here 
I  am  by  the  same  garden  wall,  married,  but  my  mind 
otherwise  unchanged,  and  with  bulbs  by  the  hundred, 
lying  in  their  stout  manila  bags  under  the  apple  tree, 
waiting  to  be  planted.  It  seems  a  lifetime  ago,  the 
coming  about  of  it  all,  yet  scarcely  longer  than  the 
week  since  our  return,  so  many  things  have  been 
crowded  into  it. 

To  begin  with,  Bluff  knew  me !  At  first  I  was  not 
sure  if  the  recognition  was  genuine,  for  the  astute 


4  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

old  setter  had  won  his  name  in  early  puppyhood 
from  his  self-possession  and  the  calm  assurance,  un- 
backed by  circumstances,  with  which  he  emerged 
unscathed  from  fights  and  other  embarrassing  situa- 
tions. The  rapid  barks  that  greeted  me  as  I  opened 
the  door  might  have  been  merely  the  joy  of  promised 
companionship  for  the  October  evening ;  for  though 
the  logs  on  the  study  hearth  were  blazing  finely 
and  the  lamps  were  lit,  the  house  seemed  strangely 
silent. 

I  stretched  my  hands  toward  the  fire  instinctively 
and  looked  about  the  familiar  room,  where  the  long 
lines  of  shelves  were  never  able  to  hold  the  flock  of 
books  that  ran  riot  over  table  and  mantel-shelf, 
crowded  the  inkstand  on  the  desk,  and  followed  their 
owner  to  his  lounging  chair,  where  they  perched  on 
both  arms,  sometimes  forgetting  their  dignity  so  far 
as  to  fall  sprawling  to  the  floor.  I  looked  over  my 
shoulder,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  footsteps. 
I  was  still  under  the  spell  of  old-world  tradition. 
Bluff  drew  nearer,  trembling  with  excitement,  but  the 
long,  ardent  sniffs  and  tail  waggings  that  gradually 
broke  from  the  usual  side-to-side  motion  into  circular 
sweeps  might  be  merely  inquisitive  enthusiasm. 

Finally  I  heard  a  step  in  the  hall  and  went  to 
meet  it.  A  'maid,  wholly  strange,  handed  me  my 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  5 

own  telegram  unopened,  saying,  "  The  doctor  wasn't 
looking  for  you,  ma'am,  until  the  eight  o'clock  train, 
and  he  drove  over  to  the  hospital  a  few  minutes 
before  this  came,  saying  he'd,  be  back  well  before 
seven." 

A  weight  fell  upon  the  buoyant  spirits  that  had 
hurried  me  helter  skelter  from  steamer  to  train,  that 
not  a  moment  might  be  lost  in  getting  to  home  and 
father — perhaps  I  should  say  father  and  home ;  but  I 
think  that  in  the  far  back  transmigratory  time  I  must 
have  once  been  a  carrier  pigeon,  so  strong  is  the 
homing  instinct  in  me. 

Evan  said  that  we  should  be  arrested  for  escaped 
lunatics,  even  if  we  avoided  a  similar  penalty  for 
reckless  driving.  At  the  same  time  he  promised  the 
driver  an  extra  dollar  if  he  made  the  desired  train, 
this  being  a  combination  of  his  inborn  English  cus- 
tom of  tipping,  that  makes  travel  so  easy,  and  a 
prudent  way  that  Evan  has  of  explaining  certain  dis- 
advantages in  what  one  wishes  to  do  at  the  same 
time  that  he  is  smoothing  the  way  for  the  doing 
thereof.  All  the  way  from  Sandy  Hook  to  the  pier, 
I  had  thumbed  the  old  yellow  time-table,  never  realiz- 
ing the  changes  that  two  years  might  have  made  in 
it,  fastening  upon  one  train  after  another  as  petty 
delays  caused  each  in  turn  to  be  impossible.  People 


6  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

crowded  about,  chattering  incessantly  of  the  beauty 
of  the  bay  and  the  approach  to  New  York,  the 
returning  tourist  pausing  every  few  minutes  to  ask 
some  foreigner  how  he  liked  America,  then  drowning 
the  polite  incoherence  of  the  answer  by  a  whirlpool 
of  statistics  about  the  length,  breadth,  thickness,  and 
cost  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  I  had  quite  forgotten 
how  very  loud  we  talk  hi  public  and  how  self-con- 
scious we  are.  Very  probably,  however,  I  was  irri- 
table; for  my  heart  was  leaping  on  and  on  to  a 
strip  of  wild  land  on  a  hillside,  where  pines  and 
forest  trees  stretch  their  branches  to  the  sky ;  scatter- 
ing flower  beds  weave  in  and  out  among  the  shrubs 
in  the  southern  corner  cut  into  the  hillside  beneath 
a  bank  wall,  and  half  a  dozen  dogs  lie  dozing  in  the 
sun  upon  the  steps  and  porch  of  a  rambling  low 
house,  where  lives  my  father,  the  country  doctor 
who  carries  comfort  across  the  hills  to  the  hard- 
worked  farming  people,  even  as  freely  as  the  sun  and 
rain  give  strength  to  their  crops. 

Could  anything  be  amiss  ?  Not  for  the  first  time, 
however,  had  feet  travelled  faster  than  a  telegram. 
No  sedate  gray  horses  at  the  station,  no  dear  gray 
head  hi  sight ;  so  taking  the  first  proffer  of  a  trap,  I 
had  fled,  leaving  Evan  to  wrestle  with  the  luggage 
and  the  local  teamster. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  7 

Presently  Bluff  ceased  his  gyrations,  and  stood 
watching  me,  paw  raised,  tail  rigid,  quite  at  a  point, 
while  the  maid  was  speaking ;  then  as  I  turned  to  go 
down  the  hall,  he  gave  one  indescribable  cry,  so  full 
was  it  of  human  expression,  made  a  bound,  touched 
the  tip  of  my  nose  lightly  with  his  tongue,  then  ran 
to  a  hook  beside  the  tall  clock,  across  whose  face  the 
full  moon  had  sailed  rhythmically  for  a  hundred  years, 
without  ever  waning,  seized  a  dusty  riding  whip  that 
hung  there,  —  my  old  whip,  —  dragged  it  down,  and 
laid  it  at  my  feet,  while  he  backed  toward  the  door, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  mine  in  a  very  delirium  of  joy. 

Yes,  Bluff  knew  me !  It  was  two  years  since  he 
had  brought  me  the  whip  as  the  regular  prelude  to  a 
walk,  two  years  since  he  had  heard  my  voice :  many 
humans  forget  in  that  time.  Bluff  knew  me,  and 
was  welcoming  me  home  not  as  a  stranger,  but  as 
one  of  his  familiar  world.  Something  tightened  in 
my  throat.  I  stooped  to  hug  the  old  faithful,  but  he 
whirled  about,  and  scampered  toward  the  door.  I 
picked  up  the  whip  and  followed.  Outside  a  mild 
gray  twilight,  mingled  with  the  light  of  the  quarter 
moon,  pictured  everything  with  soft  outlines.  As 
Bluff  leaped  down  the  steps,  a  pair  of  j uncos  flew 
from  their  perch  in  the  honeysuckles,  but  soon  set- 
tled to  rest  again. 


8  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

Where  was  the  dog  going?  Down  between  the 
weigelias  and  lilacs  through  the  stiff  little  arbour  to 
the  garden,  to  the  great  bough  apple  tree  whose 
trunk  was  encircled  by  a  seat. 

Surely  Bluff  had  not  forgotten.  Then  as  he  saw 
that  I  hesitated,  he  ran  to  a  corner  where  stepping 
stones  led  up  the  bank  to  the  open  fields,  gave  a 
short  bark  and  waited  for  me. 

"  Not  to-night,  old  fellow ;  to-morrow  we  will  go 
there,"  I  said,  seating  myself  by  the  apple  tree. 
Instantly  he  thrust  his  nose  into  my  hand,  then 
curled  himself  up  at  my  feet. 

Before  me  was  the  garden  where  I  had  played  all 
my  childhood,  until  playing  had  turned  into  dream- 
ing. It  was  unkempt,  but  it  seemed  to  have  more 
dignity  and  meaning  than  the  garden  of  my  memory ; 
the  unpruned  rosebushes  reached  out  long  bare  arms, 
or  formed  briery  tangles  according  to  their  kind,  the 
shrubs  were  massive  and  well  grown,  and  had  the 
soothing  influence  of  permanence.  In  a  sheltered 
corner  a  cluster  of  chrysanthemums,  unharmed  by 
frost,  showed  their  silvery  disks,  and  a  single  crum- 
pled pansy  looked  up  from  the  path  where  it  had 
found  footing.  What  was  that  perfume  ?  Stooping, 
I  separated  the  cold,  damp  leaves  of  a  mat  of  Russian 
violets  that  grew  from  under  the  seat.  Yes,  there 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  9 

were  a  dozen  of  the  flowers  themselves,  anticipating 
spring  after  their  hopeful  habit. 

Violets  were  my  mother's  flowers,  and  this  was  her 
seat.  She  went  away  when  I  was  five  years  old,  but 
I  have  not  forgotten,  and  I  always  called  this  great 
apple  with  its  ample  branches  that  furnished  nooks 
alike  to  me  and  to  the  robins  and  bluebirds, — the 
Mother  Tree.  I  used  to  make  bouquets  and 
wreaths  of  my  best  flowers,  and  stick  them  hi  the 
knot-holes  or  hang  them  on  the  branches  the  particu- 
lar day  in  June  when  father  always  shut  himself  into 
his  study,  and  would  not  speak  even  to  me. 

Aunt  Lot  had  said  that  I  was  a  pagan  to  make  an 
idol  out  of  a  tree  and  hang  flowers  on  it,  and  scolded 
until  I  cried  bitterly.  Father,  hearing  my  distress, 
came  out  to  find  the  cause,  and  sat  with  me  under 
the  tree  all  the  afternoon.  From  that  day  we  under- 
stood each  other,  and  the  study  door  was  never 
closed  between  us.  Here,  too,  it  was  that  he  told 
me  of  his  plans  for  the  hospital  that  now  stands 
over  yonder  by  the  town,  where  he  meant  to  help  all 
women  for  mother's  sake.  I  only  understood  his 
moods  gropingly  in  those  days;  for  the  subtle  language 
of  the  human  heart  cannot  be  imagined,  but  may  only 
be  read  by  those  who  love  and  are  loved  in  return,  and 
the  other  love  also  came  to  me  through  loving  father. 


io  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

Beside  the  gift  of  healing  and  sympathy  with 
everything  living,  father  had  the  book  madness. 
Not  the  disagreeable  stuffy  kind  of  mania  that 
Nodier's  Theodore  died  of,  simply  the  hunger  for 
the  friendships  that  books  offered  him  and  the  desire 
to  keep  such  boon  companions  in  the  best  of  health 
and  raiment.  Woe  was  upon  me  even  in  my  baby- 
hood if  I  ever  ate  cookies  over  the  lap  of  the  mean- 
est volume  or  cut  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  with 
anything  less  smooth  than  a  paper  knife !  So  it 
came  about  that  when  we  took  our  winter  holidays 
in  Boston  and  New  York,  we  mingled  music,  theatre, 
and  pictures  with  many  eager  hours  in  a  dingy  auc- 
tion room  where  books  were  sold,  that  stood  at  the 
meeting  of  three  crossways.  It  is  impossible  to 
word  the  keen  joy  we  both  found  within  those  smoky 
walls,  father  in  the  chase  and  bringing  down  the 
prey,  I  in  retrieving,  so  to  speak.  This  sport  con- 
sisted in  rushing  the  precious  volumes  safely  past 
Aunt  Lot's  custom-house  inspection  and  mixing 
them  with  the  older  residents  in  the  book  shelves 
until  their  identity  was  lost. 

The  risk  of  retrieving  varied  greatly  with  the  size 
of  the  book  itself.  The  "New  English  Canaan" 
and  Josselyn's  "  Rarities  "  were  easily  pocketed,  and 
they  modestly  kept  the  secret  of  their  own  value, 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  n 

but  to  smuggle  in  the  clumsy  bulk  of  Gerarde's 
"  Herball "  in  its  snuffy  sheep  cover  was  an  impos- 
sibility, and  father  had  to  suffer  from  weak  muddy 
coffee  for  a  fortnight.  Good  coffee  was  one  of  his 
few  luxuries,  and  Aunt  Lot  knew  well  how  to  make 
her  mild  wrath  felt.  Exactly  why  she  grudged 
father  his  precious  old  books  I  never  could  discover, 
possibly  because  she  could  not  imagine  any  other 
point  of  view  than  her  own,  which  narrowness  she 
called  economy.  I  very  early  found,  however,  that 
we  were  not  the  only  buyers  obliged  to  retrieve. 
Men  came  to  that  auction  room  whose  word  was  law 
to  hundreds  of  their  fellows,  and  packed  away  their 
winnings  in  mysterious  pockets  like  so  many  crimes, 
and  I  once  helped  an  old  thumb-fingered  gentleman, 
who  owned  a  railroad,  to  stow  away  a  glorious  mis- 
sal illuminated  on  vellum  in  a  pasteboard  box  marked 
"  one  ream  legal  cap !  " 

Since  then  as  a  married  woman  I  have  mingled 
with  others  of  my  class,  and  I  find  that  this  stupid 
book  grudge  among  us  is  a  more  fatal  disease  than 
the  book  madness  of  men,  and  I  only  hope  that  some 
one  will  discover  the  bacillus  that  causes  it.  I  also 
often  wondered  why  father  cared  about  Aunt  Lot's 
protestations ;  such  money  as  he  had  was  his  own  to 
spend,  but  it  was  doubtless  owing  to  his  medical  rule 


12  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

of  never  reasoning  with  the  unreasonable,  and  Aunt 
Lot  surely  belonged  to  the  latter  class,  even  allowing 
for  her  little  kindnesses  that  were  set  edgewise  like 
thin  streaks  of  lean  in  overwhelmingly  fat  bacon. 

In  fact,  her  very  name  came  from  her  habit  of 
looking  backward  instead  of  forward  at  all  the  turn- 
ing-points of  her  life  and  thus  missing  her  best 
chances,  until  father  had  so  often  quoted  "  Re- 
member Lot's  wife "  to  her,  that  unconsciously  she 
became  Aunt  Lot  to  us,  though  outsiders  to  this  day 
think  her  name  Charlotte. 

My  book-shelves  also  shared  in  the  spoils,  and 
each  winter  saw  me  more  keen  for  the  hunting.  In 
summer  I  almost  forgot  books.  What  need  was 
there  for  them  when  I  had  all  outdoors  around  and 
above  and  below  me,  everything  belonging  to  me 
through  the  sight,  and  telling  its  own  story  without 
the  chilly  intervention  of  print?  All  outdoors  and 
father  to  take  me  everywhere! 


Said  the  Marquis  of  Carrabas  to  Puss  in  Boots, 
upon  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when  he  offered  any 
advice :  "  We  have  but  little  money,  but  as  long  as 
we  use  our  eyes  faithfully,  everything  that  they  see 
under  the  sky  is  ours."  In  this  way  Puss  grew  up 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  13 

with  the  idea  that  all  outdoors  belonged  to  her.  By 
the  way,  did  you  ever  know  that  the  Marquis  was 
really  a  country  doctor,  and  that  Puss  was  a  female 
child? 


It  was  from  father's  shoulder  that  I  peered  into 
my  first  woodpecker's  hole,  receiving  a  sharp  reproof 
in  the  nose  from  the  bill  of  the  irate  owner.  Who 
could  compare  printed  thoughts  to  those  long  drives 
through  the  woods  to  the  charcoal-burner's  camp,  the 
horseback  rides  single  file  along  the  river  path  to  the 
sawmill,  where  a  lumberman  seemed  always  to  be  ill 
of  ague  from  the  dankness  of  the  mill  pond?  Or 
the  jolting  trips  in  a  buckboard  over  the  corduroy 
road  across  the  marshes  to  the  bar,  where  the  light- 
house boat  waited  for  us,  or  yet  the  tramps  in  pursuit 
of  plover  and  woodcock  through  the  bottom  lands  ? 
Do  not  be  shocked,  kind  ladies  of  the  Audubon 
Society ;  we  obeyed  the  game  laws,  the  birds  always 
went  to  the  sick,  and  I  knew  no  better ;  also  father 
was  quite  proud  of  me  when  I  shot  an  old  crow  on 
the  wing.  If  you  try  it,  you  will  understand  why  ! 

Then  again  I  would  stay  for  days  in  my  garden, 
grubbing  in  the  few  ragged  borders  that  the  vegeta- 
ble greed  of  the  man  of  all  work  and  Aunt  Lot's 


14  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

love  for  spinky  foliage  beds  left  me,  planning  what  I 
should  do  in  the  "  some  day  "  that  always  seemed  a 
matter  of  course  to  me.  The  very  first  thing  that  I 
should  do  in  that  happy  time  would  be  to  send  away 
the  gardener,  and  then  I  would  have  an  iron  pot 
painted  red,  with  red  geraniums  in  it  and  conch 
shells  to  edge  the  beds,  like  those  in  the  garden  of 
the  grocer's  wife,  for  my  taste  was  then  in  the  Indian 
war-paint  stage. 

When  autumn  came  and  outdoors  put  on  her  iron 
mask  to  shield  herself  from  cold,  I  crept  back  to  the 
study  and  made  friends  again  with  books,  and  read 
each  new  catalogue,  lying  flat  on  my  face  upon  an 
old  hair-cloth  lounge,  with  Timperley's  "Dictionary 
of  Printing"  (which,  being  lumpy,  heavy,  and  weak 
in  the  back,  was  constantly  falling  off  its  shelf)  for  a 
reading-desk.  Ah  !  web  of  Fate !  it  was  well  that  I 
did  not  see  you  weaving  the  pattern  of  my  life  among 
those  pages ;  being  young,  I  might  have  resented  you 
and  spoiled  the  fabric. 

One  day  father  discovered  in  a  catalogue  among 
some  curious  medical  books  a  copy  of  Dodoens's 
"  Herball."  This  he  had  long  wanted  for  its  absurdly 
quaint  descriptions  of  the  medical  properties  of  plants. 
It  was  the  English  translation  made  by  Henry  Lite 
and  printed  in  London  in  1586.  It  bore  the  auto- 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  15 

graph  and  notes  of  "J.  Oldham,  chirurgien,"  and  a 
verse  from  his  pen  :  — 

«  Reader  !  (where  Lite  is  in  the  Right) 
Peruse  in  grateful  strain, 
And  where  Dodoneus  is  Erroneus 
Correct  him  clear  and  plain.  J.  O.  1799." 

Evidently  Oldham  had  differed  so  much  from  the 
author  that  his  corrections  were  both  clear,  plain,  and 
plentiful.  Though  valuable  from  father's  stand- 
point, it  was  a  volume  safely  within  the  limits  of  his 
purse,  and  the  day  of  its  selling  he  settled  back  in 
his  chair  determined  to  hold  the  book  against  the 
field. 

It  was  a  stormy  February  day,  and  there  were  only 
two  or  three  bidders  of  the  class  that  buy  on  general 
principles,  who  dropped  out  after  a  little,  leaving  my 
father's  terse  bid  to  be  echoed  by  one  other  in  a  dis- 
tant corner.  The  price  began  straightway  to  climb 
hand  over  hand.  What  would  Aunt  Lot  say  ? 

Finally  the  hammer  fell,  and  father  flushed  with 
victory  gave  his  name  as  the  purchaser ;  the  voice  in 
the  corner  did  likewise.  The  seller  paused,  saying 
that  there  was  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  proceeded 
to  put  up  the  book  again. 

I  could  see  that  father  was  going  to  be  stubborn, 


16  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

and  I  trembled  for  the  other  person.  I  saw  him 
clearly  as  he  stepped  forward,  a  man  of  thirty, 
slightly  built  and  muscular,  with  a  strong  face  and  a 
pair  of  steel-gray  eyes  that  could  see  through  a  wall. 

The  two  men  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  the 
younger  gave  a  quizzical  little  smile,  at  me  it  seemed, 
waived  his  claim,  and  the  clatter  of  selling  recom- 
menced. 

Afterward  as  we  picked  our  way  downstairs  in  the 
dusk,  father  hugging  his  Dodoens,  Gray  Eyes  was 
close  in  front  of  us,  and  during  a  moment's  pause 
father  held  out  his  hand  and  thanked  him  for  his 
courtesy.  In  short,  the  book  of  contention  became 
the  book  of  introduction,  for  they  instantly  found 
that  they  had  mutual  friends.  Before  a  year  was 
out  they  discovered  in  truth  that  they  had  almost  all 
tastes  in  common ;  they  liked  the  same  breed  of  books, 
cigars  of  the  same  shape  and  moisture,  country  life 
better  than  that  of  the  city,  and  finally  they  agreed 
that  they  both  loved  me;  but  in  this  rivalry  it  was 
father  who  stepped  aside  and  Evan  was  retriever. 

Evan  was  English  born,  and  like  many  a  younger 
son  of  that  vigorous  race  preferred  free  flight  to  sit- 
ting underneath  in  an  overcrowded  nest,  with  no  more 
interesting  view  before  him  than  that  of  his  elder 
brother's  legs.  So,  after  circling  the  globe,  he  settled 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  17 

in  America  to  ply  his  craft  of  landscape  architect,  for 
which  the  time  was  ripe,  and  furnish  the  newly  gen- 
teel with  manor  houses,  Italian  gardens,  and  pleached 
alleys  all  made  to  measure  like  a  suit  of  clothes. 

When  we  were  married,  alack !  family  matters 
called  Evan  to  England,  so  for  two  years  we  lived 
away.  One  year  was  spent  in  travel,  the  other  in  a 
quiet  English  country  home,  these  two  years  being 
divided  by  an  illness  of  the  kind  where  through  sheer 
weakness  one  loses  gravity,  and  seems  to  float  through 
space  seeking  a  footing  either  in  heaven  or  earth  and 
finding  neither. 

The  English  life  was  mildly  pleasant ;  the  country 
with  its  myriad  touchstones,  glorious.  The  rambling 
stone  house,  garden,  and  pleasance  in  Somerset  that 
fell  to  Evan's  portion,  overflowed  with  such  flowers 
as  would  gather  pilgrims  for  miles  around  any  New 
England  village.  Jasmine  halfway  to  the  eaves, 
Marechal  Neil  roses  and  Gloire  de  Dijons  firm  as 
cabbages,  bushes  of  picotee  pinks,  begonias,  Fuchsias 
grown  to  trees,  sweet  violets  carpeting  the  orchard, 
and  ivy  making  dignified  haste  to  conceal  everything 
unsightly.  Herbaceous  beds  rioting  in  colour,  and  all 
to  be  had  for  the  picking  and  the  limited  care  of  an 
erratic  old  fellow  who  had  been  under-gardener  once 
on  a  great  estate,  but  was  climbing  down  in  the  world, 


i8  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

led  by  rheumatism,  the  English  agriculturist's  latter- 
day  companion. 

In  the  middle  of  this  garden,  opposite  my  morning 
seat,  was  an  old  stone  sundial  that  had  a  strange  influ- 
ence upon  me.  I  could  watch  the  shadow  creep 
across  its  face  for  hours  without  tiring ;  the  half-oblit- 
erated letters  of  the  legend  carved  upon  it  read  —  "I 
only  mark  the  sunlit  hours." 

It  was  a  good  moral  and  a  pleasant  influence  to 
grow  strong  and  readjust  oneself  under.  Domestic 
life  flowed  easily  with  Martha  Corkle,  Evan's  old 
nurse,  for  majordomo,  and  a  couple  of  the  well- 
trained  maids  that  cost  so  little  there. 

For  a  few  months  Evan  was  boyishly  happy.  He 
tramped  the  country-side  over  in  visiting  his  old 
haunts,  and  the  smell  of  the  may  and  cowslips  made 
his  breath  come  short  and  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
grow  tense  with  suppressed  emotion.  Did  you  know 
that  the  men  of  this  race  have  a  passion  for  flowers 
and  are  knit  thew  and  bone  with  the  homing,  soil- 
loving  instinct  which  they  call  loyalty  ?  The  morning 
of  our  wedding  day,  Evan  laid  a  bunch  of  bride  roses 
in  the  branches  of  the  Mother  Tree  in  the  garden, 
so  there  are  three  now  that  understand. 

The  old  days  cast  their  spell  upon  him,  days  from 
which  time  had  removed  the  sting  and  left  only  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  19 

fragrance.  Together  we  rowed  on  the  deep,  narrow 
river,  and  in  the  shadowy  cathedral  listened  to  the 
music  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  organ  without 
human  intervention;  in  fact,  we  discovered  each 
other  anew. 

The  newly  mated  should  always  go  away  for  a 
space,  among  strangers  if  possible.  Readjustment 
cannot  take  place  in  the  old  nest ;  but,  after  that,  all 
is  safe.  Then,  too,  not  to  go  away  is  not  to  know 
the  joy  of  return. 

After  a  time  Evan  grew  restless ;  his  scrap  of  the 
family  raiment  was  too  small,  he  must  weave  his 
own  and  mine,  and  for  the  worker  the  looms  of 
England  are  as  crowded  as  the  nests. 

One  September  morning  we  sat  by  the  sundial 
trying  to  unravel  our  "  weird  "  and  see  clearly  what 
was  best.  Evan  held  in  his  hand  the  offer  from  a 
prosperous  manufacturer  to  lease  the  place  for  ten 
years,  and  while  he  brooded  on  the  matter  I  held  my 
peace.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  speak,  though 
the  words  were  crowding  thick  and  fast  to  my 
lips. 

Two  letters  were  brought  out,  —  one  for  Evan, 
and  one  for  me.  Two  American  letters.  Evan's  was 
lengthy,  the  bulk  being  typewritten,  with  an  en« 
closed  note  in  a  well-known  hand. 


20  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

Mine  was  in  father's  odd  stenographic  characters. 
Instinctively  we  drew  apart  to  the  ends  of  the  bench 
to  read. 

Five  minutes  passed  ;  I  looked  at  Evan.  He  was 
gazing  at  the  sundial  and  gnawing  his  mustache, 
then  he  looked  at  me,  squared  his  shoulders,  and 
said,  "  McVicker  writes  me  to  come  back,  that 
there  is  a  splendid  opening  for  the  work  that  I  like 
best."  Then  he  waited  for  me  to  answer,  but  in  a 
flash  I  could  see  the  wish  to  be  and  do  was  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  had  no  desire  to  sit  still  and  crumble 
like  a  respectable  ruin. 

"  My  letter  is  from  father,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I 
could  steady  my  voice.  "  He  begs  us  to  come  home" 
(he  who  had  come  in  my  illness  to  draw  me  back 
to  life,  left  again,  and  never  written  or  spoken  a 
lonely  word  before).  "Aunt  Lot  is  to  marry  the 
Methodist  minister  next  month  and  devote  herself 
to  his  eight  children  !  '  Come  back,'  he  says;  'I  am 
hungry  for  you.  This  home  is  yours  from  now  on, 
in  deed  and  truth,  all  the  place  I  need  being  for 
myself  and  books.' " 

Instantly  we  were  side  by  side  again  in  the  middle 
of  the  bench,  our  hands  joined,  and  both  laughing. 

"Poor  Aunt  Lot!"  said  Evan.  "What  a  fate! 
But  she  will  be  no  longer  bothered  by  books, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  21 

oecause  he  will  never  have  the  money  to  buy  any- 
thing but  an  almanac,  and  that  species  of  dissenter 
moves  about  too  much  to  carry  a  library  if  he  had 
one.  But,  Barbara,  I  very  much  dislike  taking  or 
living  in  another  man's  house,  even  if  he  is  your 
father.  Besides,  the  pity  of  leaving  all  this,"  and 
he  glanced  around  the  garden. 

"If  we  only  take  the  part  that  isn't  filled  with 
father  and  books,  we  shan't  be  taking  very  much," 
I  ventured. 

Evan  laughed,  as  the  recollection  of  father's 
pervasion  of  every  nook  and  corner  came  back  to 
him. 

Then  I  squeezed  my  hands  between  his,  because 
Evan  is  always  best  content  when  he  is  protecting 
something,  and  fairly  begged  him  to  take  me  home. 
"As  for  a  garden,"  I  argued,  "we  will  have  a 
charming  one,  and  we  will  begin  it  with  your  god- 
mother's fifty  pounds  that  she  gave  us  to  buy  some- 
thing '  useful  and  instructive '  for  a  wedding  present. 
What  could  be  better  ?  The  use  will  be  beauty  and 
the  learning  pleasure.  I  will  be  the  only  gardener, 
and  you  shall  have  a  buttonhole  flower  for  every 
week-day  and  two  for  Sundays." 

"  And  go  in  and  out  of  town  and  be  a  commuter, 
like  the  men  of  that  hungry-looking  crowd  that  I 


22  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

used  to  see  hurrying  down  the  station  steps  of  a 
morning,  with  unblacked  boots  and  crumby  clothes  ? " 
said  Evan,  sighing. 

"If  living  in  the  country  and  working  in  town  is 
being  a  commuter,  yes,"  I  said  boldly;  "but  there 
are  several  kinds  of  them :  those  who  do  it  because 
they  think  it  is  cheaper  to  live  in  the  country  (which 
usually  means  that  they  are  where  their  friends  do 
not  see  what  they  go  without),  and  those  who  love 
the  country  for  its  own  sake ;  and  our  home  will 
be  in  the  real  country,  not  in  a  tailor-made  suburb. 
You  shall  have  your  breakfast  in  time,  no  bundles 
to  carry,  no  crumbs  on  your  chin,  or  egg  on  your 
mustache,  and  I  will  never  talk  about  servants. 
Oh,  Evan!  if  you  only  knew" — then  the  nervous- 
ness left  of  my  illness  mastered  me,  I  broke  down, 
and  it  was  all  settled  then  and  there. 

Presently  Evan  startled  me  with,  "How  about 
Martha  Corkle !  I  can't  lease  her  with  the  place, 
a  widow  and  all  that,  don't  you  know ;  a  good  sort, 
too,  only  overset  and  respectful.  Couldn't  we  take 
her  over,  now  ?  Save  you  a  lot  of  bother,  and 
she  could  overlook  things  —  a  regular  old  reliable." 

I  was  about  to  say  No  emphatically,  for  I  thought 
that  Martha,  conventional  and  rigid,  would  not  be 
able  to  overlook  in  another  sense  many  things  in 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  23 

a  thoroughly  New  England  home,  but  Evan  asked 
so  little  and  I  so  much.  Then  as  I  looked  up,  an 
idea  seized  me ;  I  would  carry  a  talisman  from  the 
Old  world  to  the  New,  and  I  said,  "  You  may  trans- 
plant Martha  Corkle  (strictly  at  your  own  risk,  be 
it  said)  if  you  will  also  take  the  sundial."  So  we 
four  are  here! 


Bluff  sprang  up  sniffing  and  growled,  but  only  for 
a  minute.  Evan  was  coming  down  the  path  peering 
among  the  bushes  to  find  me.  For  a  moment  we 
stood  silently  arm  in  arm  under  the  Mother  Tree, 
then  we  heard  the  rapid  trotting  of  a  horse  coming 
down  the  hill  and  in  at  the  gate.  Before  I  could 
shake  off  the  spell  of  the  past  two  years  and  realize 
that  I  was  myself,  father  came  swiftly  across  the 
orchard,  calling,  "  Barbara !  my  child,  where  are 
you  ? "  and  gathered  me  up  in  his  arms. 

He  had  not  shed  a  tear  when  I  went  away,  but 
now  they  rained  upon  my  face,  mingled  with  the 
late  falling  leaves  of  the  Mother  Tree,  while  all 
the  pent-up  love  of  those  two  years  was  in  that  one 
word,  Barbara! 

Mother  love  is  invariably  held  sacred,  as  it  should 
be,  but  why  has  father  love  never  had  its  due  ?  It 


24  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

may  be  rarer,  though  no  less  deep  or  unselfish.  In 
fact,  as  I  grow  older  and  see  other  people's  mothers, 
I  think  there  is  less  self-consciousness  in  the  father 
love.  Who  should  know  this  love  so  well  as  I  whose 
mother  went  away  when  I  was  five  years  old?  In 
those  years  "Our  Father  Who  art  in  Heaven  "  meant 
my  father  beside  my  bed,  who  soothed  me  until 
darkness  bore  no  terrors.  To  one  who  has  had 
such  a  father,  unbelief  in  God  is  impossible. 

Bluff  could  not  keep  in  the  background  for  long, 
and  capered  about  in  such  evident  comprehension  of 
the  whole  situation  that  we  were  soon  laughing,  and 
I  told  father  that  though  this  was  the  garden  of 
Eden,  we  were  going  to  reverse  the  old  order. 
Adam  and  Eve,  instead  of  being  driven  out  soon 
after  their  marriage,  had  come  back  from  their  wed- 
ding trip  to  feast  upon  apples,  especially  those  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  that  we  were  going  to 
turn  out  the  serpent  and  make  it  into  the  most 
fascinating  topsy-turvy  garden  possible,  even  the 
Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife !  Also  that  we  had 
imported  Martha  Corkle,  the  sundial,  and  a  beauti- 
ful tall  copy  of  the  Pickering  Walton's  "Angler " ; 
that  we  bought  the  last  thing  in  a  little  book-shop  in 
Southampton  for  him.  I  shall  remember  that  shop 
a  long  time,  for  a  smutty-nosed  cat  fresh  from  the 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  25 

ash  bin  insisted  upon  perching  on  the  shoulder  of 
my  smart  new  coat  and  rubbing  against  my  face. 

As  we  entered  the  door,  all  talking  at  once,  there 
stood  Martha  Corkle  herself,  the  stains  of  travel 
removed,  clean,  respectful,  severe.  I  knew  that 
she  had  a  headache.  Oh!  why  had  she  not  gone 
comfortably  to  bed  just  that  one  night? 

Father  ejaculated,  "  Bless  me !  "  then  shook  her 
cordially  by  the  hand,  never  noticing  that  she  was 
shocked ;  but  in  the  evening  meal  and  long  fireside 
confidences  I  again  quite  forgot  her. 


This  will  never  do !  While  I  have  been  day- 
dreaming they  have  brought  the  sand  and  dumped  it 
in  the  wrong  place ! 


II 

CONCERNING   GARDENERS 
(IN  GENERAL) 

October  27.  In  my  childhood's  garden  of  dreams 
there  was  no  room  for  a  gardener.  To  me  that 
name  meant  a  being  who  was  the  interferer,  not  the 
mediator  between  oneself  and  mother  earth,  a  man 
who  tyrannized  and  sulked  by  turns ;  in  spring  was 
blatant  and  self-confident ;  in  autumn,  owing  to 
divers  mistakes,  usually  indignant  with  the  quality 
of  the  soil,  the  slope  of  the  land,  the  amount  of  rain, 
and  the  date  of  the  coming  of  frost ;  in  short,  made 
us  feel  as  if  we  had  combined  with  nature  to  bring 
about  his  martyrdom,  which  he  bore  with  something 
akin  to  triumph,  enveloping  himself  with  a  halo  of 
failures. 

A  gardener  is  of  course  a  necessity  to  the  very 
rich,  —  those  unfortunates  whose  possessions  have 
expanded  alike  beyond  their  personal  control  and 
out  of  the  range  of  the  affections,  — to  the  overbusy, 
the  ignorant,  and  the  irresponsible.  These  four 
26 


GARDEN  OF  A  COMMUTER'S  WIFE     27 

classes  may  have  a  distinct  yearning  to  grow  flowers, 
fruits,  and  vegetables,  and  yet  from  the  causes 
named  are  unable  to  assume  the  joyful  responsi- 
bility of  so  doing. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  needful  personally  to 
wield  the  spade  that  turns  the  soil,  or  trundle  the  bar- 
row that  carries  the  manure.  Well-directed  brute 
force  does  this  far  more  admirably,  and  digging  and 
dragging  make  one's  pen  hand,  or  thimble  finger 
(according  to  sex  and  employment)  wretchedly  stiff, 
besides  causing  a  wicked  extravagance  in  the  matter 
of  shoes  and  laundry  work.  But  if  one  fails  to  per- 
vade the  planting  and  training  with  individuality, 
then  is  that  garden  like  the  proverbial  egg  without 
salt ;  and  of  such  overdone,  underdone,  tasteless 
embryos  there  are  plenty,  and  it  is  not  people's 
fault  if  there  are  not  more.  It  is  merely  because  it 
is  difficult  to  force  nature  into  ungraceful  attitudes 
or  inharmonious  colourings. 

"  I  haven't  seen  anything  like  this  for  years.  I've 
told  Tomkins  to  plant  fragrant  things,  but  he  says 
lemon  verbena  isn't  used  now,  and  mignonette  makes 
the  border  lines  uneven,  but  it  doesn't  do  to  thwart 
one's  gardener,  you  know,"  was  the  plaint  of  Mrs. 
Jenks-Smith,  one  of  the  summer  colony  on  the  bluff, 
when,  upon  her  going  into  my  garden  after  a  profes- 


28  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

sional  visit  to  father,  I  hesitatingly  offered  her  a 
great  bunch  of  rose,  apple,  and  nutmeg  geranium, 
annual  wall  flower,  lemon  verbena,  mignonette,  and 
lavender  sprigs. 

When  mother  was  here,  we  never  had  a  real  gar- 
dener. She  came  from  a  tranquil,  old-time  home 
of  simpler  days,  the  last  child  of  all ;  and  though 
her  miniature  makes  her  very  lovely,  a  flower  her- 
self, father  insists  that  to  paint  her  expression  would 
have  been  impossible.  She  brought  with  her  the 
will  and  skill  of  garden  craft  as  well  as  many  plants 
that  modern  gardeners  ignore,  though  through  their 
beauty,  combined  with  their  persistent  permanence, 
their  names  are  appearing  once  more  in  the  seed 
catalogues. 

The  garden  helper  in  her  brief  time  was  a  cheer- 
ful man  of  all  work  who  dug  and  delved  as  she 
guided  him,  and  so  much  of  herself  radiated  from 
her  nook  under  the  Mother  Tree,  with  its  vista 
down  the  long  walk  on  either  side  of  which  the 
flowers  were  planted,  and  was  so  wrought  into  the 
soil,  that  it  still  remains  after  a  lapse  of  twenty 
years  of  more  or  less  motiveless  experiment,  to  give 
the  keynote  to  the  garden  of  my  life. 

Though  I  was  very  young,  I  remember  perfectly 
the  eagerness  with  which  she  watched  for  the  seed 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  29 

catalogues,  simple,  convincing  affairs  lacking  the 
gaudy  colour  horrors  from  which,  happily,  we  seem 
to  be  again  emerging. 

When  the  lists  had  been  duly  made  and  recon- 
sidered, —  for  the  seed-lists  of  enthusiasts  always 
have  to  be  cut  down  and  reconstructed,  —  they  were 
mailed.  The  second  rapture  was  when  the  parcels 
came.  Oh,  the  delicious  smell  of  the  manila  paper 
bags  that  held  the  bulbs,  and  the  damp,  bog  moss 
that  wrapped  growing  roots,  in  which  I  remember 
once  finding  a  cranberry  plant  with  a  berry,  and 
thus  learning  that  the  red  fruit  did  not  grow  upon 
a  tree  like  cherries,  as  I  had  thought!  These  two 
odours  are  among  my  primary  memories,  not  to  be 
forgotten  any  more  than  I  could  forget  mother's 
way  of  lingering  over  my  name  as  she  pronounced 
it,  the  sky  light  in  her  eyes,  of  the  purple  blue  of 
the  fringed  gentian,  or  the  expression  of  father's 
face  when  on  coming  home  from  a  long  morning 
ride  he  found  mother  among  her  flowers ;  she 
would  bring  him  a  welcome  bit  of  luncheon  and 
some  cooling  drink  as  he  rested  under  the  old 
apple  tree  while  she  listened  to  his  report  of  vari- 
ous happenings,  and  I  absorbed  scraps  of  food 
and  conversation  alike. 

I  never  again  saw   that  look  in   his   eyes  after 


30  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

mother  went  away,  but  one  day  its  counterpart 
flashed  from  Evan's,  and  then  I  knew  that  we 
loved  each  other  without  a  spoken  word. 

From  that  time  on,  father,  with  his  increasing 
practice  and  the  hospital  to  direct,  had  little  time 
to  give  to  outdoor  details.  He  saw  that  the  horses 
were  always  in  good  condition,  for  this  was  often 
a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  some  one.  He  fed 
his  dogs,  and  clung  to  them  for  their  silent  friend- 
ship, as  he  sat  in  his  study  with  his  books,  or, 
with  his  gun,  strode  off  up  through  the  stubble 
fields,  of  an  October  morning ;  and  he  always  liked 
to  •  have  a  posy  on  his  mantel-shelf  or  writing  table. 

Yes,  one  thing  more :  he  told  Aunt  Lot  to  plan 
and  plant  as  she  pleased,  but  to  make  no  change 
in  the  beds  that  followed  the  long  walk,  and  spring 
and  fall  he  watched  the  thinning  out  and  resetting 
that  insures  the  long  lives  of  hardy  plants,  and  let- 
ting only  the  most  perfect  blossoms  mature  their 
seed  until  year  by  year  new  colours,  fanciful  hybrids, 
appeared  in  the  borders,  now  a  thickly  matted  flower 
jungle. 

Poor  Aunt  Lot  and  the  man  of  all  work  soon 
disagreed,  however ;  he  was  accustomed  to  have 
his  day's  toil  planned  for  him  by  one  who  under- 
stood, and  then  do  it  in  a  methodical  manner. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  31 

Aunt  Lot  had  never  before  cultivated  anything 
more  than  a  city  "  dooryard,"  or  controlled  any 
service  but  that  of  a  broken-spirited  maid  of  the 
poor  relation  variety,  consequently  she  was  inco- 
herent and  unreasonable  in  her  directions,  expect- 
ing him  to  sow  and  reap,  so  to  speak,  on  the  same 
day.  I  became  fully  impressed  with  this  by  the 
time  I  was  six  years  old,  and  at  this  time  father, 
tired  of  settling  differences,  engaged  a  "gardener," 
thinking  it  would  be  easier  to  hold  a  man  respon- 
sible than  his  elder  half-sister,  who  always  retreated 
behind  a  sort  of  concrete  breastwork  composed  of 
reminiscences  of  his  boyish  shortcomings,  relation- 
ship, and  —  tears. 

Father  and  Aunt  Lot  looked  upon  the  gardener 
from  different  points  of  view.  Aunt  Lot  used  him 
alternately  as  a  weapon  or  a  patent  of  superiority  to 
be  worn  at  village  teas;  father  apologetically,  as  a 
housewife  accustomed  to  New  England  thrift  would 
refer  to  a  housekeeper  that  she  had  been  forced  to 
employ,  through  her  own  incompetence;  while  I 
hated  the  gardener  with  the  uncompromising  honest 
hatred  of  childhood,  because,  whether  he  was  called 
John,  Pat,  or  Peter,  he  invariably  regarded  my  efforts 
as  things  of  little  account,  trod  on  the  shells  that  I 
brought  from  the  shore  with  infinite  labour  to  edge 


32  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

my  bit  of  flower  patchwork,  and  in  spring  always 
dug  up  my  bulbs  and  hardy  roots  because  it  was 
easier  than  to  dig  between  them,  —  a  stern  fact  that 
sent  me  outside  garden  limits  to  the  wild  field  be- 
yond the  strawberry  bed,  where  I  coaxed  an  intimate 
friend  of  mine,  an  up-country  boy  named  Dan'l,  who 
brought  berries  to  sell,  and  did  odd  errands  for 
father,  to  dig  up  two  long  strips  one  on  either  side  of 
a  grassy  cart  track  that  had  once  led  to  a  hay-field, 
now  reached  by  another  road.  Little  I  then  thought 
that  I  was  locating  my  garden  of  dreams. 

The  boy  dug  sturdily,  the  soil  was  black  on  top 
and  mellow  loam  beneath  —  a  happy  combination,  and 
my  flowers  throve  far  better  than  in  the  half  shady, 
badly  tilled  garden  bed. 

I  paid  Dan'l  with  a  jew's-harp,  two  old  but  well  pre- 
served valentines,  and  a  purplish  red  necktie  which 
Aunt  Lot  had  bought  father,  but  which  he  had  im- 
mediately concealed  under  some  papers  in  the  little 
room  beyond  his  office  where  he  kept  his  instru- 
ments, and  then  given  me  for  a  doll's  sash.  The 
valentines  must  have  signified  more  to  Dan'l  than 
they  did  to  me,  for  he  instantly  began  to  lavish  tokens 
upon  me,  hickory-nut  beads,  willow  whistles,  a  home- 
made  fishing  rod,  and  a  wreath  of  thistle  puffs  for 
my  hat.  This  ornament  I  wore  for  several  weeks 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  33 

until  one  fell  day  I  left  the  hat  hanging  in  the 
Mother  Tree,  and  the  yellow  birds  pulled  the  puffs 
apart  to  eat  the  seeds. 

But  the  most  treasured  gifts  were  the  roots  of  the 
old-fashioned  flowers  that  grew  in  unkempt  wealth 
about  his  grandmother's  garden.  I  had  often  been 
there  when  father  visited  the  patient  old  soul,  who 
was  lame,  and  had  admired  the  syringa,  snowball, 
and  lilac  bushes  that  almost  hid  the  house  from  the 
road,  while  the  cinnamon  roses  crept  out  between  the 
palings,  and  straggled  up  and  down  the  lonely  cross- 
road as  if  hungering  for  news,  while  in  August  the 
white  phlox  escaping  into  the  grass  made  a  snow- 
bank between  the  gate  and  the  porch. 

As  I  remember  those  valentines,  —  which,  by  the 
way,  had  been  given  me  by  our  cook,  —  they  were 
quite  startling,  and  most  unsuitable  in  their  gender. 
One  was  surmounted  by  two  papier-mache"  hearts,  and 
bore  the  query,  "  Will  you  be  my  wife  ? "  and  the 
other  had  a  scrap  of  looking-glass  in  the  centre 
framed  with  the  words,  "  In  this  you  see  the  girl  I 
love." 

But  such  a  mere  detail  did  not  dash  Dan'l's 
ardour,  for  was  he  not  ten  years  old,  both  romantic 
and  chivalrous,  and  determined  to  be  a  soldier  ? 
While  I,  being  eight  at  the  time,  and  much  interested 


34  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

even  then  in  hospital  talk,  seriously  thought  of  going 
to  battle  with  him  as  a  nurse. 

Circumstances,  however,  prevented,  the  chief  among 
them  being  that  there  was  no  war  at  the  time ;  father, 
to  whom  as  a  matter  of  course  I  confided  my  plans, 
declined  to  go  with  us  as  surgeon,  and  what  was  the 
use  of  a  soldier  to  shoot  people  and  a  nurse  with  ban- 
dages if  there  was  no  one  there  to  cut  off  legs  ?  —  an 
amputation  being  then  my  idea  of  the  treatment  to 
be  given  all  soldiers,  while  lastly  at  this  juncture 
Dan'l  left  home  to  work  for  a  grocer  at  another 
village.  I  saw  him  yesterday  in  town,  delivering 
goods  at  the  hospital  from  a  neat  shiny  wagon  of  his 
own.  Alas  for  intentions,  chivalry,  and  the  daring 
soldier  life !  The  flowers  of  our  childhood's  friend- 
ship have  been  more  enduring,  however.  His  last 
gift  was  a  small  rosebush  planted  in  a  lard  pail  to 
which  he  had  given  ventilation  by  perforating  it  with 
small  holes. 

"  Granddad  brought  the  bush  this  came  off  of  from 
Boston  b'fore  I  was  born  and  it's  just  bust  itself 
growing,  and  we've  given  away  lots  of  cuttings ;  but 
this  isn't  any  cutting,  it's  a  regular  year-old  plant," 
he  said,  as  he  thrust  the  pail  at  me. 

The  plant  proved  to  be  a  fragrant,  clear  white  rose 
with  handsome  dark  foliage,  the  lovely  Madame 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  35 

Plantier  that  was  brought  over  in  the  thirties  and 
has  never  been  surpassed  as  a  healthy,  willing 
bloomer.  Now,  even  in  its  leafless  state,  it  is  a  giant 
shrub  in  my  tangled-up  child  border  and  will  hold  its 
place  in  the  garden  that  is  to  be  as  well  as  mother's 
beds  of  hardy  flowers.  But  of  the  perfunctory,  skin- 
deep  work  combined  of  Aunt  Lot  and  the  four  gar- 
deners that  separates  mother's  reign  from  mine,  not 
a  trace  remains  save  a  few  scars  on  the  grassy  slope 
beneath  the  study  windows,  that  mark  the  location  of 
some  fantastic  foliage  beds,  which  as  for  beauty  or 
fragrance  might  as  well  have  been  made  of  gay 
carpet  or  spotted  calico. 

The  ingredients  of  this  class  of  bed  are  always  the 
same,  though  the  beds  themselves  may  vary  in  shape 
and  compounding  —  coleus  in  vars,  red  geraniums, 
alternanthera,  dusty  miller,  hen  and  chickens,  with 
salvias  or  cannas  for  centrepieces,  —  all  worthy  and 
innocent  plants  individually,  but  so  hot  and  stiff  when 
combined,  affecting  the  colour-sensitive  like  the  sight 
of  a  stout,  short-necked  woman  walking  in  the  sun 
with  a  tight  gown  and  high  collar. 

"You  are  straying  from  gardens,"  murmur  the 
leaves  of  my  "  Garden  Boke,"  through  which  the 
breeze  is  rustling  and  conveniently  drying  the  ink 
without  aid  from  a  blotter. 


36  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

Ah,  yes,  but  the  subject  is  so  broad,  and  the 
by-paths  so  many,  that  straying  is  inevitable.  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  exploiting  the  genuine  skilled  gar- 
dener of  the  main  line,  the  developer  of  nature's 
resources,  to  whom  all  honour  is  due.  The  gardener 
to  whom  I  take  exception  should  always  have  his 
title  enclosed  in  "  marks  "  and  is  of  the  tribe  that 
seems  to  launch  itself  at  the  ever-busy  and  guileless 
American  of  moderate  means  and  good  taste,  who, 
desiring  a  garden  and  having  little  knowledge  of  the 
necessary  detail  and  still  less  time  to  learn,  hires  a 
"  gardener,"  pays  liberally  for  seed  and  manure,  and 
from  the  combination  of  the  three  entertains  Great 
Expectations.  If  the  man  so  hired  were  really  what 
he  pretends  to  be,  all  would  be  well.  But  the  pro- 
cession marching  under  the  Sign  of  the  Spade  is  a 
motley  crowd  indeed,  especially  in  this  land,  where  a 
knowledge  of  country  life  and  its  various  processes, 
its  pitfalls  as  well  as  its  potency  for  good,  though 
increasing  daily,  has  not  yet  become  a  part  of  our 
national  inheritance.  As  I  look  out  over  the  hills 
and  think  of  the  people  I  have  known  during  the 
past  ten  years  who,  for  various  reasons,  have  tried 
this  glorious  outdoor  existence  and  failed  to  live  it, 
and  judge  the  cause,  it  seems  to  me  that  one  and  all 
they  approached  it  wrongly. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  37 

The  first  difficulty  is  that  people  often  think  that 
by  living  in  the  country  they  can  do  without  the 
comforts  and  necessities,  lacking  which  city  life 
would  be  doubly  unbearable.  Also  they  begin  with 
no  sort  of  preparation,  either  hereditary  or  acquired. 
Nature  simply  despises  people  who  come  to  her  as 
a  last  resort  and  try  to  squeeze  a  living  from  her, 
or  otherwise  harry  her.  She  must  be  wooed  under- 
standingly,  like  any  high-spirited  woman,  not  bullied, 
for  she  has  a  capricious  temper,  and  is  at  once  a 
spendthrift  and  an  economist. 

Why,  then,  should  any  one  expect  by  a  mere 
"  declaration  of  intention "  and  a  railway  journey 
to  conquer  the  country  and  learn  the  secrets  of  the 
life  it  offers,  in  perhaps  a  single  season  ?  And  why 
should  one  expect  to  lead  a  satisfactory  country  life 
upon  a  cheap  basis  that  would  not  maintain  life  else- 
where ? 

"But,"  again  hints  my  "Boke  of  the  Garden,"  "what 
has  this  tirade  to  do  with  gardeners  ? "  Everything, 
dear,  patient,  unresisting  confidant,  —  everything.  It 
is  these  experimentalists  that  cause  bad  service  both 
hi  and  out  of  doors,  and  by  putting  up  with  incom- 
petence, encourage  it. 


Ill 

CONCERNING  GARDENERS 

(IN  PARTICULAR) 

October  27.  To  return  to  the  procession  of  gar- 
deners who  have  crossed  my  path  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  by  pouring  their  woes  into  father's 
sympathetic  ear,  he  being  a  sort  of  confessor,  labour- 
bureau,  and  first  aid  to  the  mentally  and  financially, 
as  well  as  to  the  physically,  injured  of  a  fifteen-mile 
circuit,  comprising  open  country  villages  and  a  fac- 
tory town,  —  my  knowledge  of  them  is  based  upon 
stern  fact. 

The  most  usual  and  really  least  offensive  of  the 
group  may  be  found  abundantly  in  England  also. 
They  are  the  old  men  who  have  drifted  through 
feebleness  to  drink,  and  think  that  gardening  is 
merely  a  gentle  disturbing  of  the  soil  and  a  tying 
up  of  vines  in  the  opposite  direction  to  which  they 
desire  to  go,  like  the  usual  unqualified  curate's  idea 
of  the  ministry. 

Second  to  these,  are  the  young  men  with  weak 
38 


GARDEN  OF  A  COMMUTER'S  WIFE     39 

lungs  for  whom  outdoor  work  has  been  advised,  who 
are  naturally  depressed  and  must  not  be  expected 
to  turn  over  the  soil  more  than  half  a  spade's  depth. 
These  we  also  pity.  But  we  wholly  fail  to  appreciate 
the  services  of  the  next  grade  —  the  natural  fools, 
whose  relatives  steer  them  into  gardening  as  a  fitting 
occupation.  These  three  classes  may  be  excused 
as  unfortunates  not  wholly  responsible  for  the  dis- 
appointments they  cause. 

The  most  trying  type  of  all,  however,  is  the  one 
that  I  found  here  on  my  return,  —  the  know-it-all  in- 
dividual who,  after  spending  a  few  months  in  potting 
cuttings  for  a  florist,  and  mowing  dooryards,  adver- 
tises, "  Wanted,  a  position  by  a  graduate  gardener, 
to  take  entire  charge  of  a  gentleman's  place.  Can 
milk."  He  doesn't  say  will  milk,  mind  you !  Oh, 
if  unsophisticated  folk  only  realized  the  tragedy  con- 
centrated in  those  two  words,  Can  milk ! 

Once  arrived,  he  assumes  the  dignity  of  a  profes- 
sional, and  considers  himself  as  far  above  the  mere 
labourer  who  cheerfully  spits  on  his  hands  and 
wields  the  spade,  as  our  present  housemaid,  —  a 
young  Irish-American  whom  father  has  with  diffi- 
culty coaxed  from  the  factory  work  that  was  killing 
her  "to  accommodate,"  and  who  is  betrothed  to  a 
factory  youth,  whom  she  marries  at  Christmas,  and 


40  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

whose  mother  owns  "rale"  estate,  — feels  above  the 
usual  rank  and  file  of  "  livin'-out  girls." 

The  caste  spirit  among  the  American  working 
classes  ?  Most  assuredly,  quite  as  absurd  and 
strictly  drawn  as  among  their  employers.  Neither 
are  we  as  a  family  quite  what  we  should  be  in  this 
housemaid's  eyes,  I  gathered  from  a  conversation 
that  took  place  between  her  and  Martha  Corkle,  as 
we  belong  to  the  working  class,  for  do  not  both  father 
and  Evan  work  for  a  living  ? 

One  learns  much  in  two  years  of  absence  from 
home  and  country,  much  that  is  not  realized  until  the 
return.  Theoretically  we  are  free  and  equal.  In 
reality  we  are  often  bondsmen  and  not  to  our  real 
or  fancied  superiors,  but  to  our  servants.  Perhaps, 
however,  when  we  are  better  educated  to  command, 
the  fetters  will  be  broken. 

One  thing  we  must  always  lack,  now  that  slave 
days  are  past,  and  that  is  one  of  the  great  benefits  of 
ancestry  —  the  hereditary  servitor.  In  the  old  coun- 
tries, especially  England,  that  is  the  inspiration  as 
well  as  the  despair  of  those  who  have  lived  in  one  of 
its  home  gardens  and  hope  ever  to  equal  it  here  on  a 
similar  financial  basis — hereditary  outdoor  labour  is 
as  honourable  as  any  profession  that  descends  from 
father  to  son.  The  gardener  has  probably  pottered 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  41 

about  the  place  from  the  time  he  was  a  chubby 
cheeked  boy  earning  his  first  thri'penny  bit  by 
washing  flower-pots,  served  an  apprenticeship  of 
experience,  until  in  old  age  his  trembling  fingers  can 
hardly  hold  the  sprays  of  apricots  that  he  strives  to 
fasten  against  the  wall  which  alone  draws  the  heat 
necessary  to  ripen  them.  Unconsciously  he  knows 
the  soil,  he  knows  the  spots  that  the  sun  warms 
earliest  in  spring,  he  knows  the  borders  that  catch 
the  drip  of  winter  rains,  in  what  corners  mildew 
flourishes,  and  which  is  the  chief  resort  of  the  perva- 
sive earwig,  and  all  the  other  capabilities  and  short- 
comings of  the  ground  intrusted  to  him,  be  it  large 
or  small,  as  the  physician  knows  the  constitution  of  a 
patient  that  he  has  tended  from  birth.  But  to  have 
this  type  of  servitor,  he  must  be  inherited  with  the 
garden,  and  this  implies  the  law  of  entail.  What 
will  you  have  ?  My  previous  decision  about  gar- 
deners in  general,  and  our  present  incumbent  espe- 
cially, was  confirmed  by  the  dumping  of  that  great 
load  of  sand  in  the  wrong  place  at  a  time  when  a 
day's  delay  in  planting  the  bulbs  might  have 
brought  frost  to  lock  the  ground  until  spring.  You 
may  argue  that  a  few  days'  delay  is  a  small  thing, 
but  that  proves  that  you  were  not  born  to  the  soil. 
I  had  said  to  Chris,  the  gardener,  "Go  over  to  the 


42  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

river  for  the  sand,  and  when  you  return,  call  me,  and 
I  will  show  you  where  to  spread  it."  Instead,  the 
man,  a  Swedish  youth,  a  hospital  protege  of  father's, 
who  was  of  the  class  that  had  once  potted  endless 
cuttings  in  a  mechanical  way  while  he  thought  of 
everything  else  than  his  work,  drove  in  by  the  lower 
gate  and  scattered  the  sand  over  two  strips  that  are 
to  be  shrubberies,  simply  because,  as  he  said,  in 
grudging  explanation,  he  "  thought  nice  beds  of 
tulips  in  stripes  would  look  good  dere,  and  be  more 
best  dan  vere  you  dink  to  put  them."  The  bugle 
call  of  revolt  has  sounded,  but  in  a  novel  and  unusual 
way ;  the  commuter's  wife  arises  mentally  against  the 
"gardener,"  instead  of  vice  versa,  and  his  downfall 
will  be  swift. 

It  took  the  rest  of  the  day  to  sweep  up  the  sand 
and  get  another  load.  Meanwhile,  Chris  worked  in 
a  huff,  as  if  a  deep  affront  had  been  put  upon  him. 

I  could  see  by  the  hard,  caked  condition  of  the 
soil  in  the  old  flower  beds,  by  the  long  walk,  and  in 
the  vegetable  garden  generally,  that  it  had  not  been 
deeply  and  properly  stirred  all  summer.  But  when  I 
asked  him  to  fork  up  the  ground  thoroughly  between 
the  roots  of  some  of  mother's  hardy  plants,  he 
replied :  — 

"  It  is   not  best.     In   my   country  we  do  not  so. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  43 

Stiff  ground  on  top,  he  keep  out  both  heat  and 
cold." 

A  similar  request  to  rake  a  mass  of  chickweed  off  a 
bed,  instead  of  digging  it  in,  brought  the  rejoinder:— • 

"  It  is  time  wasted.  The  winter,  he  will  kill  it," 
while  every  one  knows  that  in  most  places  this  weed 
blooms  at  intervals  in  all  months  but  perhaps  two, 
and  flourishes  mightily. 

In  despair,  I  went  to  father  and  asked  him  who  had 
given  the  man  directions  the  eighteen  months  of  his 
stay,  where  he  came  from,  who  recommended  him, 
and  whether  he  understood  that  I  was  to  be  obeyed  ? 

Father  appeared  rather  embarrassed  for  a  man 
with  surgical  nerve,  to  retain  which,  perhaps,  he  has 
always  been  an  avoider  of  domestic  flurries.  Then 
the  end  of  his  nose  twitched  as  it  does  when  he  is 
cornered  and  wants  to  laugh,  which  he  finally  did  as 
he  said :  — 

"  Chris  was  employed  by  a  florist  over  in  town,  cut 
his  hand,  got  blood  poisoning,  and  turned  up  at  the 
hospital.  He  seemed  intelligent  and  a  great  reader. 
Why,  really,  Barbara,  the  first  morning  he  worked 
here  in  spring,  he  stopped  me  when  he  was  weeding 
radishes,  and  asked  me  if  I  liked  Ibsen,  saying  he  did 
not,  'because  he  takes  the  hope  from  man.'  I'm 
sure,  Bab,  that  showed  discernment.  And  then,  he 


44  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

really  prefers  well-printed  books  to  cheap  affairs  with 
paper  covers,  and  quite  appreciated  the  green  morocco 
bindings  on  my  Bacon's  works.  I  haven't  told  you 
that  last  winter  I  secured  a  copy  of  that  1753  folio 
edition,  in  three  volumes,  with  the  Vertue  portrait, 

that  I  missed  through  irresolution  at  the sale, 

though  I  could  not  have  it  bound  until  after  your 
Aunt  Lot's  marriage. 

"  He  is  all  eagerness,  too,  about  a  course  of  read- 
ing I  had  planned  for  him  this  winter,  even  hoping 
for  early  frost,  so  that  he  may  begin." 

"Early  frost  is  one  thing  he  cannot  be  allowed 
to  have,  for  I  want  open  ground  for  a  month  to 
come,"  I  said,  hardly  able  to  keep  my  face  straight. 

Dear  old  dad  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and  so 
easily  imposed  upon,  and  this  wretch  had  keenly 
scented  out  his  chief  foible.  It  also  made  my 
heart  ache  to  think  of  father's  home  loneliness 
during  those  two  years,  when  he  had  no  one  to 
appreciate  his  treasures  but  a  gardener.  Book 
collecting  up  to  a  certain  point  is  a  secretive  occu- 
pation, but  something  in  the  pleasure  is  lacking  if 
there  is  no  chance  to  display  the  latest  purchase 
in  a  nonchalant  way  to  the  gaze  of  some  one  who 
knows  its  value. 

"  He  may  be  discerning,"  I  said,  after  steadying 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  45 

myself ;  "  in  fact,  too  much  so  for  our  needs,  but  not 
in  gardening.  You  weren't  thinking  of  employing 
him  to  catalogue  your  books,  I  suppose  ? "  I  ventured. 

Then  father  laughed  heartily  to  cover  a  certain 
confusion  that  told  me  plainly  that  he  entertained 
Quixotic  views  of  Chris's  capabilities  of  education, 
and  stammered :  — 

"  My  dear,  he  can  write  like  copper  plate ! " 

"  Were  the  vegetables  good  last  summer  ? "  I 
continued  frostily.  "  There  seems  to  be  very  little 
over  in  the  root  cellar." 

"  No,  not  very,  but  —  er,  you  see  it  was  first  dry 
and  then  wet  —  quite  wet." 

"  Why  have  the  grape  vines  been  allowed  to  tumble 
off  the  arbour  and  lie  on  the  ground  ? " 

"Chris  said  the  string  I  bought  was  poor." 

"Why  isn't  the  celery  banked  yet?" 

"He  says  the  new  way  is  to  let  it  get  a  touch 
of  frost  firi;t." 

"Is  he  cheap?" 

"Barbara,  my  child,  you  know  I  never  beat 
down  the  price  of  labour." 

"Of  what  use  is  Chris?" 

"He  has  some  good  points,  and  —  er  —  we  must 
have  some  one,  for  Tim  has  all  he  can  do  to  fol- 
low me  about  and  keep  horses  and  stable  in  trim." 


46  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

"  Mother  was  her  own  gardener,  and  I  want  to 
follow  her  as  closely  as  I  may  and  yet  be  quite 
myself,"  I  said  gently. 

"Then  all  will  be  well,  indeed,"  said  father,  a 
load  seeming  to  slip  from  his  shoulders,  "  for  after 
all  I  believe  that  I  must  have  let  Chris  go,"  he 
continued,  a  suspicious  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "for  he 
told  me  yesterday  that  you  do  not  appreciate  him, 
and  that  sympathy  is  more  to  him  than  wages. 
He  announced  that  he  can  '  go  to  the  big  house 
on  the  bluff  where  folks  never  interfere  with  the 
gardener.'  Though,  come  to  think  of  it,  his 
remarks  were  hardly  consistent,  for  '  letting  alone ' 
is  not  sympathy,  and  I  believe  he  mentioned  that 
they  offered  wages  which  were  really  fabulous. 

"  Still,  I  am  afraid  you'll  be  disappointed.  You 
are  so  eager  to  block  out  your  garden  and  plant  all 
those  bulbs  before  frost,  and  Evan  is  too  busy  in 
getting  settled  at  his  work  to  do  more  than  give  you 
advice.  I  fear  you  are  undertaking  too  much,  and 
you  will  have  no  time  left  for  enjoyment." 

"Not  a  bit,  and  nothing  could  suit  me  better. 
Now,  you  dear  old  father,  please  pay  me  every 
month  the  wages  that  you  paid  Chris  and  —  you 
shall  see  —  well,  either  something  or  nothing.  You 
may  not  notice  the  difference  at  first,  but  you  will 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  47 

soon.  Oh,  daddy,  daddy,  I  don't  believe,  after  all 
these  years  even,  you  know  exactly  how  I  love 
flowers  and  all  the  things  that  made  the  old  home, 
which  are  increased  tenfold  in  the  new.  Evan  does, 
and  that  is  the  wonder  of  it,  and  the  reason  why  he 
is  content  to  take  up  this  life  and  help  to  make  it 
surer  for  me  every  day.  The  thought  of  what  it  all 
means  for  the  years  to  come  goes  singing  through 
my  head  even  when  I'm  asleep.  I  want  to  do  the 
things,  not  have  them  done  for  me.  You  know  you 
always  preach  that  babies  brought  up  by  servants 
and  led  in  after  dinner  are  not  at  all  the  same  things, 
nor  as  lovable,  as  those  cuddled  and  nursed  by  their 
mothers.  And  it's  the  same  way  with  a  garden. 

"  Of  course  I  must  have  an  animated  shovel  in  the 
person  of  a  useful  man,  maybe  a  boy  to  do  weeding 
in  the  growing  season ;  and  that  reminds  me  that  I 
must  ask  Tim  if  he  can't  find  me  a  man  for  to-mor- 
row. We'll  give  Chris  the  rest  of  his  month's  wages 
and  let  him  go,  won*t  we,  dear?  for  he  is  as  im- 
possible to  gardening  as  a  bump  in  a  shoe  to  walk- 
ing. And  you  need  not  have  qualms,  for  he  has 
really  dismissed  himself." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  some  one  about  the  hospital  I 
could  get,"  suggested  father. 

"Daddy,   dear,"    I    begged,    putting    both    arms 


48  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

around  his  neck,  and  looking  him  in  the  eyes  until 
our  noses  met,  a  trick  of  childhood,  to  fix  his  atten- 
tion, "I'm  the  same  Barbara  as  ever,  but  my  eyes 
have  seen  and  I've  learned  a  few  new  things.  I  will 
sew  for  the  hospital,  grow  flowers  and  vegetables  for 
it,  visit  it,  bring  the  poor  convalescents  over  here  to 
sit  in  the  sun,  grow  white  flowers  for  those  who 
never  go  home,  and  give  it  a  great  deal  more  of 
your  time  than  I  want  to  spare,  but  please,  please, 
let  wages  be  wages,  and  charity,  charity.  The  two 
are  harder  to  mix  properly  than  mayonnaise  in  hot 
weather.  Don't  you  remember,  dearest,  what  times 
we  have  had  with  the  people  that  you  have  tried  to 
serve  without  putting  them  under  obligation,  by  let- 
ting them  think  they  were  aiding  you,  while  it  usu- 
ally ended,  after  much  discomfort,  in  our  being 
considered  under  obligation  ?  People  that  were  not 
ill  enough  for  the  hospital,  and  yet  needed  tinkering. 
I  don't  think  I  was  troubled  by  it  at  the  time,  but  I 
observed,  and  the  facts  must  have  stowed  themselves 
away  somewhere  in  my  brain ;  for  since  I  have  been 
a  wife,  and  the  domestic  side  of  me  is  developing,  I 
partly  realize  Aunt  Lot's  dilemmas,  and  the  whole 
fantastic  crowd  flit  in  front  of  me,  exhibiting  their 
infirmities  as  if  in  warning. 

"  There  was  the  man  with  the  rheumatism  who 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  49 

thought  he  could  care  for  cows  because  he  had 
driven  a  milk  wagon.  The  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  dump  a  load  of  windfall  apples  into  the  corner 
of  the  pasture,  so  that  when  Black  Bess,  who  was 
always  greedy,  came  home  that  night,  she  did  not 
lead  as  usual,  and  her  ears  hung  down  and  she 
leaned  against  the  gate,  she  was  so  intoxicated  from 
the  cider  the  fermented  apples  had  made  in  her 
sto'mach.  Then  you  had  to  fuss  over  her  all  night, 
and  her  milk  dried  up. 

"  Surely  you  remember  the  winter  that  Aunt  Lot 
struggled  with  the  cook  who  had  a  lame  knee  and 
couldn't  go  down  cellar,  and  the  waitress  who  had 
vertigo  and  couldn't  take  the  dishes  down  from 
the  top  pantry-shelf  without  dropping  them.  Then 
the  next  cook  couldn't  even  wash  her  dish-towels, 
because  it  hurt  her  to  bend  her  liver,  and  when 
the  washing  was^  all  put  out,  expected  higher  wages 
than  if  she  had  been  able  to  do  it." 

"But  Tim  came  to  us  through  the  hospital," 
said  father,  brightening  as  he  caught  at  this  plank 
in  a  whirlpool  of  disasters,  "and  surely  we  could 
not  do  without  him." 

"No,  Tim  is  the  exception  to  the  rule.  In  the 
face  of  experience  even,  we  should  never  dream  of 
parting  from  him  or  he  from  us,  I  firmly  believe." 


50  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

Tim,  Tim'thy  Saunders,  or  Crumpled  Tim,  as  he 
is  locally  called  on  account  of  his  curious  body, 
which,  owing  to  a  railway  smash-up,  without  being 
absolutely  hump-backed,  looks  as  if  a  giant  had 
taken  him  in  his  hand  and  literally  "crumpled" 
him  up,  is  a  Scotchman,  with  a  keen,  not  over- 
suave  tongue,  a  sharp  eye,  and  as  honest  a  heart 
in  his  crooked  body  as  ever  beat.  He  has  lived 
with  father  ever  since  I  was  little  enough  to  call 
him  my  camel  and  think  that  being  given  a  ride 
on  his  hunched  shoulders  was  the  finest  sport  in 
the  world. 

Now,  happily  for  me,  Evan  and  Tim  had  formed 
an  odd  friendship  early  in  our  courtship,  based  on 
national  loyalty,  so  that  neither  could  do  wrong 
in  the  eyes  of  the  other.  This  was  providential 
and  promised  to  make  the  "  commuting "  side  of 
the  daily  life  smooth,  for  Tim  will  never  grumble 
at  the  extra  horse,  or  if  he  has  upon  occasion  to 
drive  Evan  to  an  earlier  train  than  usual;  while 
Evan  seems  fully  prepared  to  take  the  blame  upon 
himself  instead  of  scolding  Tim  if  they  fail  to  catch 
it,  which  mischance  of  course  may  happen.  Now, 
in  addition,  Martha  Corkle,  egged  on  by  reasons  of 
family  and  national  pride,  had  served  a  good  break- 
fast to  the  minute  of  promptness  during  this,  as 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  51 

we  call  it,  "commencement  week,"  so  that  the 
rocks  of  which  neighbours  are  already  so  kindly 
warning  us,  me  at  home  and  Evan  on  the  cars, 
have  not  appeared  in  the  road.  In  fact,  I've  a 
glimmering  idea  that  it  is  because  we  commuters 
and  others  hold  our  servants  responsible  for  bridg- 
ing certain  inconveniences  of  living  instead  of  ac- 
knowledging them  and  bearing  the  responsibility 
ourselves,  that  makes  domestic  service  such  a  vexed 
question  in  America.  Personally  I  do  not  know 
of  but  a  single  family  of  all  my  acquaintances  with 
whom,  were  I  a  servant,  I  would  be  willing  to  live, 
and  I'm  not  yet  sure  that  I  would  live  with  myself ; 
but  I  shall  probably  decide  this  when  the  anni- 
versary of  my  return  comes  around. 

In  short,  at  present  I  feel  at  perfect  liberty  to 
give  myself  to  the  garden,  body  and  brain.  I 
think  my  soul  always  stays  outdoors  except  at 
night,  when  it  watches  my  sleeping  body. 

After  a  few  moments'  silence,  during  which  each 
of  us  did  some  thinking,  father  said,  "How  would 
you  like  a  married  man  with  a  family  as  —  well, 
to  please  you  I  won't  call  him  a  gardener,  but  a 
'  general  useful '  ?  You  know  there  are  four  or  five 
good  living-rooms  that  were  once  used,  over  the 
carriage-house.  Perhaps  a  married  man  would  have 


52     GARDEN    OF  A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

more  ambition,  and  certainly  more  experience,  and 
his  wife  also  might  be  occasionally  useful." 

"To  a  married  man  I  have  no  possible  objec- 
tion, but  to  having  his  family  on  the  place,  no,  if 
you  please.  There  are  doubtless  very  competent 
married  men  and  women,  but  they  are  rarely  mar- 
ried to  each  other.  Oh,  father,  do  you  remember 
the  last  time  those  rooms  were  occupied?  You 
surely  haven't  forgotten  Peter  Schmidt?" 

"  No ;  for  though  he  insisted  on  straight  lines, 
worshipped  cabbages,  and  slighted  the  flowers,  he 
was  the  most  faithful  worker  we  ever  had  or  ever 
shall  have,"  he  replied,  very  significantly. 

"  I  beg  pardon.  I  should  have  said,  do  you 
remember,  Mrs.  Peter  Schmidt,"  I  hastened  to 
add. 

At  this,  father  laughed  until  the  tears  came  to 
his  eyes,  though  there  was  a  time  when  it  was  not 
considered  a  laughing  matter,  and  fled  to  his  gig, 
which  Tim  was  driving  around  from  the  stable.  I 
following  to  bespeak  for  the  next  morning  the  man 
with  the  shovel,  —  who,  by  the  way,  is  an  infinitely 
superior  grade  of  being  to  the  "man  with  the 
hoe,"  who  merely  walks  slowly  along,  shuffling  his 
inefficient  tool. 


IV 

THE  AMERICANIZING   OF   PETER 
SCHMIDT 

October  28.  Tim  promises  to  furnish  an  "effee- 
cient  mon"  for  me,  but  holds  out  no  hope  that  it 
will  be  by  to-morrow,  asking  at  the  same  time  if 
I  prefer  a  foreigner,  an  American  born,  or  natural- 
ized. I  replied  that  it  is  immaterial  which,  if  the 
man  is  capable  in  addition  to  being  honest  and 
temperate.  Chris  had  the  two  latter  qualifications, 
but  they  seemed  rather  to  sap  his  vitality  than  to 
be  of  any  special  advantage.  Peter  Schmidt,  dear 
old  fellow,  was  honest,  sober,  and  capable  as 
well ;  but  the  methods  his  wife  took  to  transform 
and  coerce  his  plodding,  peasant  mind  and  body 
into  what  she  considered  an  American,  were  the 
cause  of  his  downfall. 

As  to  securing  the  services  of  a  good  native  for 
manual  labour,  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question  in  a 
part  of  the  country  where  the  social  centre  is  a 
combination  of  factory  and  market  town.  There 
are  men  who  will  "  accommodate  "  for  a  few  days 
53 


54  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

or  a  week  at  ploughing,  haying,  or  raking,  but  to 
take  a  regular  place  for  regular  pay  would  be  to 
become  the  male  equivalent  of  the  "  livin'-out  girl," 
and  socially  degrading  to  one  owning  a  makeshift 
house  and  a  few  acres  of  land.  So,  without  trade 
training,  the  native  "chores"  about  at  painting, 
carpentering,  raising  a  few  vegetables,  or  letting 
the  shingles  fall  from  his  roofs  and  the  land  run 
out  until  the  elder  children  are  old  enough  to  work 
in  a  factory,  when  they  all  move  "  over  town,"  and 
some  old  country  peasant,  either  Celt,  Dane,  Pole, 
or  Hun,  buys  the  place  of  the  mortgagee,  and  begins 
to  pull  it  together  on  a  wholly  different  plane. 

It  was  on  the  first  day  of  November  and  my 
fourteenth  birthday  that  Peter  Schmidt  and  family 
came  to  live  with  us.  I  was  sitting  on  the  pasture 
fence  cracking  butternuts,  which  finger-dyeing  occu- 
pation so  absorbed  me  that  I  did  not  hear  approach- 
ing footsteps,  and  was  therefore  startled  by  a  voice 
that  asked  in  slow  and  inverted  sentences,  if  the 
"  honoured  doctor "  lived  near  by. 

Looking  up,  I  saw  a  strange  procession  that 
halted  as  the  man,  its  leader,  spoke.  This  man 
was  perhaps  forty,  though  he  might  have  been 
either  older  or  younger.  His  bent  shoulders  and 
warped  legs  indicated  the  former  age,  while  his 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  55 

fresh  complexion  and  wide-open  though  expression- 
less clear  blue  eyes,  the  latter.  He  was  dressed 
in  typical  ill-fitting  shabby  store  clothes,  but  his 
stout  square  boots  and  cap  with  a  peaked  visor 
were  evidently  of  foreign  make. 

Behind  him  was  a  woman  a  full  head  taller,  thin, 
long-armed,  and  bent  about  the  shoulders.  She 
had  dark  hair  and  eyes,  with  the  complexion  and 
the  flat  features  which,  when  they  appear  in  people 
of  the  north  countries  of  Europe,  give  either  the 
appearance  of  sadness  or  sulkiness.  This  woman's 
expression  was  compounded  of  both.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  pulled  her  shawl  together  and  stooped 
to  chide  a  little  tow-haired  boy  of  five  or  six  who 
was  tugging  at  her  hand.  Behind  the  woman  in 
turn  followed  two  girls  of  ten  and  twelve,  swarthy 
and  flat  featured  as  their  mother,  like  whom  they 
were  dressed  in  a  clumsy  way  that  had  withal  a 
certain  peasant  picturesqueness. 

While  I  was  talking  to  the  man,  a  small  one-horse 
wagon,  of  the  pattern  used  by  vegetable  venders 
in  the  town,  rounded  the  corner ;  in  it  were  a  few 
very  plain  articles  of  household  furniture,  a  large 
bundle,  doubtless  containing  the  family  feather  bed, 
and  several  small  parcels  neatly  tied. 

This  was   Peter  Schmidt,  his  family,  and  posses- 


56  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

sions,  coming  by  father's  directions  to  be  our 
"gardener."  He  lived  with  us  eight  years  before 
his  duties  as  an  American  citizen  led  him  to  seek 
the  more  elevated  position  offered  by  a  shoeshop. 

When  father  told  us  Peter  Schmidt's  history, 
Aunt  Lot  was  stirred  with  practical  pity,  and, 
always  eager  for  any  occupation  that  implied 
house-cleaning,  giving  advice,  or  regulating  other 
people's  affairs,  instantly  began  to  overturn  the 
attic  for  old  furniture  and  such  garments  of  ours 
as  might  have  escaped  the  general  demand  of  those 
who,  coming  to  the  hospital  in  rags,  had  even  less 
to  wear  on  leaving. 

In  a  couple  of  days  the  living-rooms  over  the 
stable  were  resplendent,  owing  to  a  combination  of 
energy  on  the  part  of  the  Schmidt  family  themselves 
in  whitewashing,  scrubbing,  and  window-washing,  in 
which  even  the  small  boy  joined,  the  girls  giving 
deep-drawn  "  oh's "  and  "  ah's "  of  admiration. 
While  the  following  Christmas  the  whole  family 
came  into  the  hall  before  breakfast  to  give  us  the 
season's  greeting,  each  laden  with  a  fat  wreath  made 
of  ground  pine,  that  they  had  walked  two  miles  to 
the  woods  to  gather,  giving  them  as  tokens  of  thank- 
fulness that  "  we  now  hass  a  home,"  as  Mrs.  Schmidt 
said  through  tears  that  told  of  dark  days. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  57 

Father  was  exultant.  Here  at  last  was  the 
gratitude  and  appreciation  that  had  too  seldom 
crowned  his  efforts  to  better  his  fellows. 

Little  by  little,  Peter  told  father  of  his  past.  It 
seemed  that  since  coming  to  this  country  sixteen 
years  before,  either  ill  luck  or  an  unseasonable 
desire  to  better  themselves,  which  really  amounts  to 
the  same  thing,  had  kept  them  on  the  move.  Their 
very  home-leaving  had  been  ill  judged,  unpropitious, 
and  hurried,  that  Peter  might  escape  army  service 
which  would  necessarily  delay  the  early  marriage 
upon  which  Karen  was  set,  she  then  being  a  fellow- 
worker  with  him  on  a  milk  and  cheese  farm. 

Peter?  Oh,  Peter  had  at  that  time  evidently 
looked  stoically  upon  matrimony  as  an  estate  not  to 
be  entered  hurriedly ;  he  would  have  preferred  to  go 
alone  to  America,  establish  himself,  and  then  send 
for  Karen.  He  already  had  the  responsibility  of 
partially  providing  for  his  old  mother,  a  widow  who 
still  lived  in  a  couple  of  rooms  by  the  windmill 
where  his  father  had  worked.  As  he  said,  "  she  was 
homesick  away  from  the  sound  of  the  sails  going 
round,"  and  "  I  too,"  he  added,  "  think  no  sound 
can  be  made  so  fine  as  when  the  sails  and  the  wind 
struggle  together  and  there  is  much  wheat  to  grind." 
Peter  was  a  Hollander  who  loved  his  country  in  a 


58  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

patient,  sluggish  way,  and  would  have  preferred, 
father  thought,  to  have  remained  there  all  his  days, 
army  service  and  all. 

There  are  many  ways  of  loving  one's  country,  it 
seems,  as  in  other  loves,  the  mental  and  the  physical, 
and  his  was  love  of  the  absolute  ground,  and  had  no 
mental  pride  or  consciousness.  He  had  not  the 
faintest  conception  of  the  Netherlands'  rise  and 
history ;  the  Spanish  wars  were  as  foreign  to  him  as 
the  deluge ;  his  pride  was  not  of  the  country's  power 
in  commerce  or  art.  He  might  have  heard  mention 
of  the  names  Rembrandt,  van  Dyck,  Frans  Hals, 
Plantin,  but  they  meant  nothing,  though  he  had 
lived  within  a  few  hours'  walk  of  Amsterdam  and  its 
wonderful  Rix  Museum.  His  plodding  mind  waded 
in  the  rich  black  soil  that  the  plough  turned  over, 
never  rising  above  the  bearded  barley  that  grew 
from  it.  He  found  greater  beauty  in  the  straight, 
sluggish  canals  than  in  all  the  rushing,  forest-banked 
rivers  in  the  world.  He  could  not  think  quickly  or 
hurry,  and  the  soil,  was  it  not  always  there,  at  once 
tangible  and  immovable,  the  one  thing  in  which  he 
seemed  to  have  full  confidence  ?  In  short,  he  was 
peasant  to  the  core,  intelligently  and  contentedly 
so.  What  a  pity  that  he  should  be  dragged  away 
and  awakened,  for  of  such  is  the  strength  of  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  59 

earth.  Surely  there  is  often  something  sad  about 
ambition. 

What  if  the  earth  that  grows  the  wheat,  the 
bread  of  the  world,  should  insist  that  it  was  a  finer 
destiny  to  fill  the  flower  pots  that  hold  the  plants  in 
a  conservatory  ? 

Once  in  America,  the  Schmidts  had  at  first  worked 
here  and  there  until  money  enough  was  obtained  to 
carry  them  West  to  take  up  a  farm  hold.  This 
proved  a  failure,  owing  to  the  fact  that  Peter  did 
not  understand  the  difference  of  methods,  climate, 
etc.,  and  also  lacked  means  to  live  while  the  land 
was  being  improved  and  the  first  crop  gathered. 
After  ten  or  twelve  years  of  struggling,  privation, 
and  chance  work  for  others,  they  drifted  slowly  east- 
ward, eight  children  having  been  born  to  them,  of 
whom,  owing  to  hardship  and  the  fevers  of  new 
countries,  only  four  were  living.  Karen  had  then 
worked  out  by  the  day  in  the  factory  town,  taking 
her  baby  with  her  and  putting  it  to  sleep  in  a  clothes- 
basket  or  any  convenient  nook,  while  she  washed 
and  scrubbed.  At  last  it  also  died,  and  then  she 
broke  down  completely  and  went  to  the  hospital, 
where  father  found  her,  and  when  her  weary  body 
was  rested  and  repaired  he  sent  the  family  out 
here. 


60  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

As  Peter's  work  was  chiefly  with  the  soil,  he  was 
content,  the  fruit  and  vegetables  throve,  the  flowers 
languished.  As  Aunt  Lot  kept  but  one  maid, 
Karen  often  helped  us  in  emergencies,  for  a  woman 
likes  to  have  a  little  pin  money.  In  those  days  she 
was  always  begging  to  do  some  little  task  in  return 
for  the  many  ways  in  which  we  aided  her,  and  Aunt 
Lot  took  great  pains  in  showing  her  how  to  cut  and 
fashion  over  my  clothes  for  the  girls,  as  I  was  at 
least  two  sizes  taller  than  either.  How  glad  I  am 
that  I  am  fairly  tall  and  quite  slender ;  it  is  so  con- 
venient to  be  able  to  have  a  long  reach  in  tying  up 
vines,  and  then  there  is  so  much  stooping  to  be  done 
in  gardening,  and  if  one  is  stout,  the  flesh  must 
always  interfere  like  an  impediment  in  a  door- 
hinge. 

During  four  years,  agriculturally  speaking,  we  had 
a  time  of  peace  and  prosperity.  Peter's  ideas  as  to 
beauty  were  not  mine,  but  he  was  devoted  to  his 
children,  and  the  boy,  his  father's  counterpart,  was 
much  with  him  as  he  worked.  The  hay  was  cut 
and  cured  as  carefully  as  if  the  welfare  of  the 
nation  depended  on  it.  The  vegetables  were  rowed 
up  like  soldiers  on  parade,  and  the  grass  edges  were 
faujtless.  It  was  Peter  who  suggested  tilling  an 
unused  field  and  growing  potatoes  and  winter  vege- 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  61 

tables  to  help  out  the  scanty  resources  of  the  hospi- 
tal. Peter  was  slow,  but  oh,  so  reliable !  True,  he 
would  insist  upon  shearing  the  roses  and  shrubs  out 
of  all  identity,  like  so  many  cropped  heads,  and  the 
most  awful  foliage  beds  were  developed  in  his  reign. 
But  I  think,  as  I  now  look  back,  Aunt  Lot  aided  and 
abetted  him.  Also  two  gray  drain  tiles  used  as 
vases  and  filled  with  sad  lilac  petunias  appeared  like 
sentinels  on  either  side  of  the  walk  from  the  road  to 
the  porch.  I  protested,  but  Aunt  Lot  said  that  Mrs. 
Schmidt  suggested  them  and  thought  them  grand, 
and  it  might  hurt  her  feelings  to  remove  them. 

With  my  new  vision  I  see  that  was  a  fatal  mis- 
take ;  where  service  is  concerned,  when  we  hesitate 
to  protect  our  own  rights,  the  dynasty  will  soon 
crumble. 

Father  revelled  in  the  man's  wholesome  enjoyment 
of  the  earth,  and  of  the  mere  planting  and  tilling. 
"We  need  such  labourers,"  he  often  used  to  say  as 
he  watched  Peter  at  work,  —  "  labourers  for  the  wide 
field  and  the  great  crop ;  such  men  have  made  the 
West.  Our  difficulty  is  that  our  Eastern  labour  is 
too  small  and  detailed,  and  we  scorn  plodding  peasant 
toil. 

"  I  must  tell  Peter  the  opportunities  of  his  class  for 
new  world  citizenship." 


62  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

Alas,  how  citizenship  and  the  way  it  is  regarded 
depends  on  those  whose  opinions  first  tinge  the  vision 
of  the  immigrant,  as  well  as  upon  the  calibre  of  the 
woman  he  marries.  Sometimes  when  I  think  how 
far  wives  often  unconsciously  warp  the  husband's 
point  of  view,  and  cramp  his  worldly  attitude,  it 
makes  me  shiver  with  fear  of  the  responsibility. 

Father  ralked  to  Peter,  good  wise  talk,  and  in 
course  of  time  he  took  out  his  naturalization  papers. 
Karen  also,  who  was  far  more  alert  than  her  hus- 
band, was  a  perpetual  influence  goading  him  to  "  be 
American,"  but  for  different  reasons. 

She  had  made  a  friend  in  the  village,  a  woman  who 
twenty  years  before,  owing  to  a  pertly  pretty  face, 
had  married  far  above  her  station.  In  consequence 
her  tongue  had  been  since  sharpened  on  the  grind- 
stone of  snubbing  until  she  had  become  a  sort  of 
village  firebrand  whom  few  could  touch  and  escape  a 
scorching. 

This  woman  was  Karen's  instructor  in  the  language 
of  liberty  which,  according  to  her  reading,  was  anar- 
chy, and  it  was  from  her  standpoint  and  with  her 
precepts  that  Karen  goaded  Peter  to  "be  American." 

In  the  fifth  year  a  change  was  perceptible,  not  yet 
in  the  man,  but  in  the  woman  of  the  household.  Per- 
haps I  should  say  women,  for  Marie  and  Trina  (short 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  63 

for  Katrina)  were  fifteen  and  seventeen  —  no  longer 
children,  but  domestic  factors. 

Karen  had  constantly  begged  Aunt  Lot  that  when 
Trina  was  old  enough,  she  should  be  taken  into  the 
household.  So  as  she  was  now  a  well-grown  girl, 
Aunt  Lot  suggested  that  the  time  had  come,  only  to 
be  surprised  by  the  reply,  "  Trina  has  no  mind  to  be 
livin'-out  girl ;  she  wish  to  get  '  edication.'  " 

Aunt  Lot  was  rather  nettled  at  Karen's  tone,  but 
father  said  education  was  a  worthy  desire,  that  he 
would  talk  over  the  matter  with  the  Schmidts,  and  see 
what  tastes  the  girls  had,  and  try  to  advise  them  as 
to  the  best  channel. 

He  returned  from  the  interview  somewhat  per- 
turbed, finding  that  Karen's  idea  of  education  was 
purely  superficial,  being  to  learn  as  little  as  possible 
of  something  to  get  into  a  store  or  become  a  type- 
writer, anything  in  short,  to  escape  the  stigma  of 
"  livin'  out,"  which  she  in  some  unaccountable  way 
had  come  to  regard  as  akin  to  a  crime.  While,  on 
talking  to  the  girls,  he  found  that  they  were  of  the 
hopeless,  shiftless  order,  scarcely  knowing  on  which 
finger  to  place  a  thimble,  about  all  they  had  learned 
at  the  local  public  school  being  a  desire  to  seem, 
rather  than  the  industry  to  be. 

Then  a  demon  entered  the  family,  or  perhaps  it 


64  THE  GARDEN  OF  A 

might  better  be  called  a  microbe,  as  they  came  in 
fashion  about  that  time.  It  should  have  been  bottled 
and  labelled  "The  social  importance  of  clothes,"  a 
disease  as  deadly  as  appendicitis  and  more  prevalent. 

Karen  had,  up  to  this  time,  lived  much  to  herself, 
dressing  neatly  but  in  the  old  world  simplicity  of  her 
class  that  well  suited  her ;  for  those  whose  gait  has 
been  formed  by  the  swinging  of  the  wooden  shoes 
and  the  shoulders  shaped  by  the  milk-yoke,  had  best 
beware  of  high  heels  and  the  fantastic  fashions 
descended  from  the  French  through  the  interpreta- 
tion of  a  factory  town.  One  day  Trina  appeared  in 
a  new  but  flimsy  coat,  the  week  after  one  of  mine, 
nicely  cleaned  and  freshened  with  new  collar  and 
cuffs,  had  been  given  her ;  then  Aunt  Lot,  thinking 
some  accident  had  befallen  the  garment,  made 
inquiry. 

Karen's  face  took  a  threatening,  sullen  expression 
that  quite  frightened  Aunt  Lot,  while  her  black  eyes 
snapped,  as  she  blurted  out,  "  Trina  have  it  slappit 
at  her  in  school  dat  her  coat  vas  ole  clothes  and  de 
cuffs  put  on  to  make  longer  de  sleeves.  She  cry 
vith  shame,  and  she  shall  not  bear  such." 

Father  insisted  that  Aunt  Lot  could  not  have 
understood  and  that  such  nonsense  was  impossible, 
but  a  little  later  on  he  was  somewhat  taken  aback 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  65 

by  Karen's  asking  him  to  have  a  new  front  door  put 
to  their  apartments,  because  in  going  in  the  present 
door  the  kitchen  was  seen  in  reaching  the  parlour. 

Aunt  Lot  always  insisted  that  father  was  to  blame 
for  yielding  the  point,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there. 

Callers  began  to  drop  in  at  the  Schmidts'  at  all 
times  of  day,  wash  days  and  all,  in  direct  defiance 
of  country  custom,  and  we  often  noticed  that  Peter, 
instead  of  sitting  down  to  a  hot  meal,  carried  his 
dinner  outside  and  ate  it  alone  in  one  of  the  sheds, 
or,  in  warm  weather,  under  a  tree. 

Next  I  discovered  that  the  callers  were  people  for 
whom  Karen  was  doing  cheap  dressmaking  in  order 
to  obtain  more  money  to  "live  like  Americans." 
Lace  curtains  appeared  in  the  windows  in  due  course, 
and  before  long  a  parlour  organ  was  bought  and 
squeezed  in  at  the  new  front  door,  though  not  one 
of  the  family  could  as  much  as  whistle  a  tune. 

Peter  worked  steadily  on,  growing  more  silent  day 
by  day,  and  clinging  closer  to  the  companionship  of 
the  little  boy,  who  was  merry  as  ever.  Once  father 
asked  Peter  the  cause  of  the  change  in  his  home  life 
and  if  he  was  content.  But  he  only  looked  from 
right  to  left  like  a  dumb  animal  in  pain,  and  did  not 
answer.  One  October  night,  shortly  after  this,  as 


66  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

father  was  fastening  his  horse  in  the  stable  he  heard 
loud  talking  in  shrill  feminine  accents.  The  voice 
said  in  English,  the  home  language  now  having  been 
dropped  as  an  undesirable  reminder  of  the  past, 
"  Veil,  if  you  don't  tink  I  keeps  tings  right  and  cooks 
to  suit,  den  I  can  do  vitout  you  altogeder.  I  vill 
take  the  childrens  avay  and  keep  bourders,  and  I  can 
do  many  oder  tings  and  have  no  need  of  you.  Dis 
besides,  I  vill  see  to  it  you  shall  send  no  more  of  your 
vages  to  dat  old  voman  who  liked  not  me.  Let 
oder  peoples  keep  her." 

The  "  old  woman  "  was  Peter's  mother,  to  whom  he 
sent  the  tiny  stipend  that  kept  her  from  being  a 
public  charge.  Karen  somehow  did  manage  to 
stop  the  next  remittances,  and  later  it  was  rumoured 
about  by  a  fellow-countryman  that  the  mother  had 
died  in  the  Dutch  equivalent  of  the  Poor  House. 

Then  Peter  staid  outdoors  except  absolutely  at 
night,  scarcely  tasting  his  cold,  unpalatable  food,  and 
the  crisis  came  rapidly. 

In  a  few  days,  owing  to  an  emergency,  Aunt  Lot 
asked  Mrs.  Schmidt  to  do  a  little  washing  for  pay, 
of  course,  as  usual.  She  was  always  paid  as  if  she 
had  been  a  wholly  outside  worker.  The  response 
was  a  curt  refusal  owing  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
making  Trina  a  new  dress  for  "a  big  dance  over 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  67 

town,"  but  under  her  breath  Aunt  Lot  averred  she 
heard  her  say,  "  I'm  no  servant.  Peter,  he  a  fool  to 
vork  for  the  doctor,  but  I'm  not  hired,  too."  Aunt 
Lot  did  not  tell  father  of  this,  for.it  was  quite  enough 
to  take  up  things  said  aloud,  that  could  not  be 
passed  as  unheard. 

Mrs.  Schmidt,  though  unconsciously,  at  last  took 
the  fatal  step  and  threw  aside  the  protection  of  caste 
to  assume  social  responsibility  by  giving  a  party  far 
beyond  her  means,  or  rather,  the  Misses  Schmidt  gave 
it.  "  Socials  "  and  dances  were  of  frequent  occurrence 
in  the  fall  and  winter  months  among  the  foreign 
farming  element,  but  none  of  this  class  were  asked, 
being  now  scorned  by  Karen  as  "  pisans,  vit  no 
ambishun."  Classmates  of  both  sexes  from  the 
public  school  and  the  Lutheran  Sunday-school  were 
alone  chosen  for  this  function  which  Karen's  evil 
genius  argued  would  place  the  girls  on  a  footing 
in  the  local  country  society.  Marie  was  now  em- 
ployed in  a  flashy  millinery  store  in  the  town  where 
her  wages,  called  by  her  "salary,"  barely  paid  for 
her  shoes  and  her  car  fare. 

Of  course  the  firebrand  who  had  for  the  past  two 
years  guided  the  family  affairs  was  mistress  of 
ceremonies.  People  came  to  and  fro,  and  I  found 
myself  almost  avoiding  going  about  the  garden,  for 


68  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

fear  of  appearing  intrusive,  so  completely  we  were 
enthralled,  and  so  uncomfortable  had  the  condition  of 
affairs  become.  That  very  morning  Tim  had  given 
a  roundabout  warning  that  if  his  stable  precincts 
were  daily  interfered  with  by  the  Schmidt  women 
there  was  no  use  in  his  trying  to  do  his  work. 

During  the  afternoon  there  was  much  hammer- 
ing at  the  stable,  to  which  Aunt  Lot  called  father's 
attention,  but  he  merely  laughed,  and  said  he  sup- 
posed they  were  decorating.  We  wondered ;  for 
the  rooms,  though  comfortable  and  ample  for  dwell- 
ing purposes,  were  hardly  suitable  for  a  ball. 

But  when  he  returned  at  midnight,  after  a  long 
drive  across  the  hills  in  a  pouring  rain  that  had 
set  in  at  dark,  and  discovered  there  was  no  place 
where  he  could  get  under  cover,  he  was  angry 
indeed.  The  vehicles  from  the  carriage  house  were 
standing  out  under  the  trees,  carelessly  covered  from 
the  wet,  while  a  somewhat  dreary  and  spiritless 
dance  was  going  on  in  that  building  to  the  music 
of  harp  and  fiddle,  the  participants  being  chiefly  an 
undesirable  class  of  factory  hands,  asked  because 
others  had  declined,  and  a  few  young  people  of 
the  neighbourhood  who,  evidently  having  come 
from  a  kindly  schoolmate  feeling,  looked  conscious 
and  out  of  place.  Father  rang  the  stable  bell  for 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  69 

Tim  with  a  clang  that  startled  us  even  in  the 
house,  and  when  Tim  ran  out,  white  and  scared, 
pointed  to  the  horse  and  chaise,  and  strode  in  with 
the  rare  stern  look  on  his  face. 

For  an  hour  father  and  Aunt  Lot  talked,  recall- 
ing the  various  omissions  that  had  finally  culmi- 
nated into  absolute  defiance,  and  decided  justly  that 
whatever  influence  had  changed  the  once  crouch- 
ing, humble  woman,  she  certainly  now  completely 
dominated  the  man.  That  they  could  no  longer 
live  on  the  place  was  decided  then  and  there,  but 
father  argued  that  if  work  and  residence  were  sepa- 
rated, all  might  yet  be  well.  Aunt  Lot  thought 
differently,  and  yet  she  too  pitied  Peter,  who, 
though  helpless  to  throw  off  the  present  condition, 
was  personally  a  valuable  servant. 

Father  decided  that  in  the  morning  he  would  have 
a  talk  with  Peter,  and  he  went  to  bed  dreading  the 
ordeal  more  than  the  severest  surgical  operation. 
His  temperament  was  not  to  wound  except  to  the 
better  heal.  In  this  case  the  result  seemed  dubious, 
and  to  inflict  or  allow  needless  pain  was  a  crime 
in  his  eyes. 

We  had  not  finished  breakfast  before  Aunt  Lot 
was  very  unnecessarily  reminding  father  of  the 
duty  before  him  and  of  everything  he  must  say, 


70  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

when  a  knock  sounded  at  the  front  door.  This 
almost  immediately  opened,  and  in  walked  Peter, 
followed  by  his  wife. 

Father  afterward  said  that  he  thought  at  first 
they  had  come  to  make  some  explanation,  but  a 
glance  told  me  otherwise. 

Peter  had  evidently  been  slowly  and  persistently 
worked  up  to  a  terrible  still-white  heat  which  almost 
made  him  believe  himself  wronged,  and  Karen,  her 
eyes  glistening,  and  her  head  darting  forward  from 
her  bent  shoulders  like  a  flat-headed  adder,  kept 
goading  him,  allowing  him  no  time  for  thought  or 
retreat,  though  his  frank  wording  of  the  grievance 
was  not  what  she  would  have  had  it. 

"Ve  move  avay,"  he  gasped  without  preamble 
and  looking  at  no  one.  "  Not  much  people  came  to 
de  barty,  and  my  girls  have  it  slappit  at  dem  dat 
dey  are  no  better  dan  pigs  to  live  in  vit  a  stable. 
Yes,  ve  move  avay  to-morrow,  mein  Gott,  to-day 
even." 

Father  replied  quietly,  looking  only  at  Peter,  that 
it  was  exactly  the  thing  he  was  about  to  propose,  and 
that  Peter  might  take  a  few  days  to  rearrange  his 
affairs  before  continuing  the  fall  ploughing. 

"  Ploughing !  Ploughing  iss  it  ?  "  shrieked  Karen, 
stung  to  added  fury  by  being  completely  ignored,  and 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  71 

by  the  fact  that  the  failure  of  her  social  hopes  had 
been  openly  confessed.  "  He  vorks  no  more  and  he 
ploughs  no  more  for  you.  No  more  vill  he  be  a 
servant  to  any  man,  nor  vill  I.  He  is  American 
citizen  already,  next  month  he  vote.  But  for  you  are 
ritsh  "  (what  a  hiss  she  put  into  the  word !)  "  he  can 
have  as  much  say  in  dis  place  as  you ! 

"  Yes,  and  you  tread  us  down ;  you  make  us  to  live 
in  a  stable  and  bring  disgrace  on  my  girls,  so  they  be 
slappit  at,  and  dat  vomans  dere  "  (pointing  her  finger 
at  poor  trembling  Aunt  Lot)  "  she  tink  I'm  a  servant 
vomans  too,  and  last  week  even  she  dare  ask  me  to 
do  a  vash. 

"  But  dere  are  folks  so  much  ritsher  dan  you  dat 
you  are  nobody.  You  tink  you  can  keep  down  de 
pcor  in  stables  like  dey  do  in  de  ole  country,  but  you 
canno: —  .annot,  mein  Gott.  Peter,  he  vill  vork  in  a 
shop  and  be  no  more  livin'-out  mans,  to  shame  his 
girls."  Then  she  shook  her  bony  fist  almost  under 
Aunt  Lot's  nose  as  father  stepped  between.  How 
they  went  out  none  of  us  knew.  My  next  recol- 
lection was  seeing  father  go  to  his  medicine  closet, 
pour  whiskey  into  a  glass  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
without  adding  water  hold  it  to  Aunt  Lot's  lips,  and 
as  she  took  a  sip  and  choked  feebly,  he  swallowed 
the  rest,  went  into  his  office  and  closed  the  door, 


72  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

while  she  began  to  cry  softly,  saying  between 
sniffs :  — 

"  So — many — years  —  furniture  —  clothes  —  milk, 
vegetables  —  took  —  care  —  of  —  them  —  measles  — 
whooping-cough  —  that  good  carpet  good  as  new 
— that  front  door — never  will — we  never  will  trust 
anybody  again !  " 

But  of  course  we  shall,  you  know ! 

Thus  Peter  Schmidt  passed  from  the  open  fields  to 
the  shoeshop. 

On  election  day  father  saw  him  at  the  polls.  In 
the  evening  when  driving  in  the  moonlight  past  some 
land  that  Peter  had  ploughed  deep  and  left  in  great 
furrows  for  the  frost  to  sweeten,  father  saw  a  strange 
object  on  the  ground.  Stopping,  he  crossed  the  road 
to  see  if  it  was  some  creature  or  merely  a  shadow. 

It  was  Peter  stretched  in  a  fresh  furrow,  his  head 
buried  in  his  arms,  his  whole  body  shaken  by  sobs, 
while  crouching  trembling  by  the  wall  was  the  little 
boy. 

Report  reached  us  that  late  the  same  night  Peter, 
mingling  with  his  new  comrades  of  the  shop,  was  half 
urged,  half  forced  to  drink  with  them  to  honour  his 
first  vote.  The  rank  liquor  was  strange  to  him,  he 
became  deeply  drunk,  and  half  led,  half  dragged,  he 
was  left  upon  his  doorstep. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  73 

This  is  why  the  living-rooms  at  the  stable  have 
remained  unoccupied  and  why  I  prefer  that  they 
shall  be  so  unless,  well,  unless  Crumpled  Tim  takes  a 
bride. 

Yes,  I  know,  I  suppose  that  I  shall  yet  be  disap- 
pointed in  Tim  after  all  these  years,  and  that  his 
queer  nubby  feet  will  prove  to  be  cloven.  But  if 
Sisyphus  was  so  persistent  in  rolling  a  stone  up  hill, 
why  shouldn't  we  be  equally  patient  in  keeping  our 
opinion  of  human  nature  on  the  up  grade  ? 


V 

A  RAINY  DAY 

MORNING 

October  31  (morning).  Three  days'  delay,  but 
Chris  has  gone,  and  October  wearing  goloshes  is 
quietly  plodding  down  the  road  to  the  rhythmical 
patter  of  steady  rain. 

Tim  has  secured  a  "  general  useful "  with  a  round, 
cheerful  countenance  and  an  excellent  personal  ref- 
erence from  the  next  town.  In  fact,  Bertie  the 
newcomer,  in  addition  to  knowing  which  end  of  the 
shovel  belongs  in  his  hand  and  which  in  the  ground, 
professes  to  be  able  to  mend  tools  and  tinker  about 
in  a  truly  encouraging  fashion,  having  in  fact 
brought  a  well-equipped  tool  chest  with  him.  Even 
now  on  the  day  of  his  advent,  I  can  hear  him  pound- 
ing away  in  the  little  tool  house  that  holds  the 
garden  necessities,  after  the  manner  of  a  thrifty 
man  who  uses  rainy  days  for  tool-mending  and  such- 
like work. 

It  is  very  necessary  that  the  "general  useful" 
74 


GARDEN    OF  A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     75 

should  be  able  to  use  hammer,  saw,  and  glass 
cutter,  as  well  as  rake  and  spade,  or  the  commuter 
in  whose  garden  he  digs  will  be  buried  by  an  autum- 
nal leaf  fall  of  small  bills,  more  deeply  than  were 
the  babes  in  the  wood  by  the  well-intentioned 
robins. 

Chris  the  literary  seems  to  have  massacred  the 
old  garden  implements  and  cremated  their  remains, 
for  of  whole  tools  there  are  next  to  none,  while  the 
usual  array  of  halt  and  maimed  are  likewise  missing, 
so  that  Evan  has  ordered  a  fresh  supply,  all  of  which 
I  must  list  in  the  special  part  of  my  garden  book 
that  treats  of  his  godmother's  wedding  gift  of  fifty 
pounds  for  something  "  useful  and  instructive  "  and 
what  we  did  with  it,  so  that  we  may  judge,  when  the 
account  is  closed,  if  the  conditions  have  been  com- 
plied with. 

Bertie  is  now  cleaning  out  a  jumble  of  broken 
flower  pots,  old  seeds,  and  boxes  holding  odds  and 
ends  of  Paris  green,  hellebore,  and  various  other 
compounds  that  bring  death  to  bugs  and  sneezing 
to  humans;  and  he  is  also  going  to  whitewash  the 
walls  of  the  little  building.  One  comfort  about 
Evan  is  that  he  not  only  knows  exactly  what  he 
wishes  done,  but  is  able  to  leave  directions  in  such 
a  form  that  they  cannot  possibly  be  misunderstood. 


76  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

When -you  live  in  the  country  and  your  husband 
goes  daily  to  town,  you  will  soon  recognize  this  trait 
as  akin  to  genius. 

Already  I  can  see  the  complete  tool  house  in  my 
mind's  eye  from  simply  hearing  Evan's  directions  to 
Bertie.  There  are  to  be  racks  for  holding  pots 
graded  according  to  size ;  wooden  pegs  across  which 
the  various  rakes,  hoes,  etc.,  can  be  laid ;  hooks  for 
the  water-pots  and  grass  edging  shears;  corner 
shelves  for  holding  the  measuring  line  (to  be  used 
for  vegetables,  only  I  shan't  allow  it  in  the  flower 
garden),  twine,  trowel,  weeders,  while  under  these 
is  room  for  the  two  lawn-mowers,  the  wide  for  gen- 
eral use,  the  narrow  for  borders.  On  the  opposite 
side  a  wide  shelf  either  for  potting,  cutting,  or  to 
hold  the  flower  jars  when  I'm  filling  them  for  the 
house,  and  above  the  shelf,  hung  between  leather 
loops  (made  of  an  old  rein)  pruning-shears,  flower 
scissors,  a  hammer,  a  saw,  and  a  bag  of  assorted 
nails  and  tacks  are  hung  like  articles  in  a  dressing- 
case. 

Bertie  JB  a  Dane,  quite  familiar  with  the  Eng- 
lish words  necessary  for  asking  and  receiving  direc- 
tions, but  fortunately  not  with  those  used  either  in 
lengthy  discussions  or  literary  dialogues. 

Evan  suggests  that  we  now  have  all  the  human 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  77 

material  on  the  place  necessary  for  spontaneous 
combustion,  or  a  race  riot,  and  really  it  is  an  inter- 
national mixture,  much  like  the  general  population 
and  compounded  by  circumstances  alone. 

Tim,  driver  and  stabjeman,  Scotch  and  violently 
of  the  Dissenting  Church. 

Bertie,  Danish,  general  useful,  religion  probably 
lacking. 

Martha  Corkle,  cook  pro  tern.,  awaiting  develop- 
ments, English,  aggressively  of  the  Established 
Church. 

Delia,  waitress  and  office  maid,  Irish- American, 
violently  Roman  Catholic. 

Elizabeth  (cook  until  Martha's  advent),  laundry 
and  dairymaid  pro  tern.,  native  and  Methodist. 

Martha  Corkle,  before  whom  the  necessity  of 
tolerance  of  religious  opinion  and  race  was  men- 
tioned, came  to  me  this  morning,  full  of  dignity 
and  responsibility,  and  said, 

"  Mrs.  Evan "  (she  never  accords  me  my  last 
name,  that  honour  belonging  to  the  portly  mother  of 
ten  and  wife  of  our  elder  brother,  the  .vicar),  "  I 
hope  that  you  do  not  think  I  shall  demean  myself 
by  taking  notice  of  opinions  held  in  my  kitchen  or 
outside ;  that  is  unless  things  are  disrespected 
which  are  my  vitals,  though  of  course  it  would 


78  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

serve  better  for  authority  if  they "  (servants,  not 
vitals)  "were  all  of  the  Church  and  came  in  to 
prayers  every  morning  as  they  used  when  I  served 
at  the  rectory.  Then  a  word  at  all  was  a  word 
against  the  family  as  much  as  me,  Mrs.  Evan.  Not 
that  I  holds  you  responsible,  ma'am,  not  at  all,  and  I 
feel  for  you,  ma'am,  for  what  can  be  done  in  a  place 
where  there  is  no  tenantry  to  be  brought  up  to  ser- 
vice, and  all  the  help  comes  from  different  places 
and  reared  on  disagreeing  victuals,  as  it  were?  It 
all  seems  as  wild-like  to  me  as  Australia,  where 
my  brother  Joe  bides,  savin'  the  lack  of  those 
jumpin'  kangaroos,  and  I'm  always  expectin'  them. 
No,  Mrs.  Evan,  on  my  word,  I  shan't  contend 
except  for  vitals,  and  no  disrespect  intended,  ma'am." 


How  steadily  it  rains !  a  wholesome  fall  storm  that 
the  ground  absorbs.  Certainly  gardening  makes  one 
conscious  of  the  great  variety  of  ways  in  which  the 
work  of  moistening  the  soil  is  done.  To  some  people 
all  rains  are  alike.  In  the  city  I  have  never  heard 
any  distinction  made  except  that  of  a  storm  or  a 
shower.  I  well  remember  being  ill  one  spring  at 
the  planting  season  and  listening  to  the  rain  as  I 
lay  in  bed.  I  asked  a  town-bred  maid  whom  we 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  79 

chanced  to  have,  what  sort  of  rain  it  was.  She 
looked  blankly  at  me,  then  out  of  the  window  as 
if  hardly  comprehending  my  meaning  and  replied, 
"Just  plain  rain,  miss,  there  isn't  any  thunder." 
A  countrywoman  would  have  said  either  a  grow- 
ing, a  cold,  a  washout,  a  spring  filling,  or  a  smart 
rain,  according  to  the  facts. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  long,  unsealed  attic  that  is 
lighted  with  a  dormer  window  at  either  end.  A 
comfortable  open-fronted  wood  stove  glows  away 
by  the  chimney  that  fills  the  centre  of  the  loft. 
This  has  been  my  playroom  ever  since  I  left  the 
nursery  and  those  far-away  mother  arms  slipped 
from  about  me.  Now  that  I've  come  back  I  think 
that  I  appreciate  its  privacy  more  than  ever,  and 
keep  it  for  a  playroom  still.  Why  may  not  grown- 
ups have  playrooms  where  they  can  throw  off  con- 
ventionalities and  restraint,  be  silly  or  only  idle, 
and  romp  either  mentally  or  physically  as  they 
please  ?  The  garden  of  course  is  the  best  place 
for  these  wild  moods  in  seasonable  weather,  but 
even  then  one  needs  an  indoor  retreat,  a  place  to 
lie  flat  on  an  old,  unhurtable  sofa,  and  think  alter- 
nately of  everything  and  nothing,  well  out  of  the 
reach  of  sudden  callers. 

What  odious  things  callers  are !    I  love  my  friends 


8o  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

dearly,  but  friends  never  call.  They  simply  flit  in, 
knowing  the  times  and  seasons  when  you  are  at 
liberty,  or  being  mistaken  and  scenting  anything 
out  of  joint,  they  pat  the  dogs,  pick  up  a  book  to 
borrow,  a  flower  to  smell,  and  flit  out  again,  as  if 
that  alone  was  the  object  of  their  visit,  leaving  you 
comfortable  and  unembarrassed.  Or,  finding  that  all 
is  well,  they  draw  off  gloves,  unpin  hat,  and  stay  to 
luncheon  without  forcing  you  through  the  responsi- 
bility of  asking  them,  a  relief  when  you  are  dubi- 
ous of  the  meal.  Unless  people  have  this  tact  they 
can  never  really  be  called  friends  or  safely  asked 
to  come  freely  within  the  sacred  home  precincts. 

A  country  doctor's  daughter,  like  a  minister's 
wife,  has  many  curious  experiences  in  this  respect, 
and  my  time  of  trial  has  arrived. 

In  truth  the  two  days'  gap  in  my  gardening  op- 
erations has  been  filled  to  overflowing  with  callers, 
well-intentioned  folk  who  would  be  friends  if  they 
but  knew  how,  people  of  many  grades,  all  kindly 
eager  to  welcome  me  home,  and  advise  and  ask 
questions  varied  with  remarks  about  Aunt  Lot's 
marriage  and  queries  as  to  whether  I  didn't  think 
father  had  aged  during  my  absence. 

I  had  intended  giving  a  sort  of  parish  high  tea 
a  little  later  on,  bracing  myself  to  answer  questions 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  81 

en  masse,  fortified  by  a  fine  new  gown  and  Evan  to 
share  both  admiration  and  criticism.  Not  that  we 
exactly  enjoy  this  sort  of  thing.  We  should  much 
prefer  saving  up  and  giving  them  a  musical  after- 
noon, Evan  even  perhaps  being  coaxed  to  play  the 
violin  himself.  But  when  you  wish  to  entertain 
people,  you  must  give  them  what  they,  not  what 
you  like,  and  what  that  is  remains  to  be  discovered. 
However,  this  festival  is  still  before  me,  while  the 
questions  and  advice  have  set  me  to  thinking  and 
make  me  quite  reconciled  to  spending  this  rainy 
day  in  the  comfortable  fastness  of  the  attic. 

Before  I  went  away  Aunt  Lot  represented  the 
family,  but  now  one  and  all,  patients  and  neigh- 
bours, recognize  me  as  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  are  prepared  to  hold  me  socially  responsible. 
This  is  a  great  change  for  the  young  person  who, 
three  years  ago,  never  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
take  a  table  at  the  annual  fair  or  to  make  cake 
for  the  monthly  sale  upon  the  proceeds  of  which 
the  subsistence  of  one  of  the  three  village  ministers 
depended. 

I  have  been  freely  reminded  of  what  a  good  cake 
maker  Aunt  Lot  was,  and  I'm  trembling  lest  Martha 
Corkle's  confections  should  fall  below  her  standard, 
as  I've  promised  three  loaves,  a  pan  of  cookies, 


82  THE  GARDEN    OF  A 

and  a  braised  ham  for  next  week's  harvest-home 
supper,  and  they  must  be  faultless,  for  the  supper  is 
for  the  hospital. 

A  school  friend  of  my  mother's,  a  very  charming 
woman,  but  rather  a  borrower  of  trouble,  raised  a 
more  serious  point  by  saying  that,  glad  as  she  was 
to  see  me  back,  she  hoped  that  I  had  not  used  undue 
influence  to  take  Evan  from  his  native  land,  as  she 
thought  such  experiments  dangerous  and  against 
the  nature  of  things.  I'm  afraid  that  my  answer 
was  rather  heated.  It  is  not  against  nature  for  the 
female  to  have  the  say  as  far  as  possible  in  choosing 
the  location  of  the  home. 

I  am  American  to  my  finger-tips,  though  I  fully 
recognize  the  fascination  and  protective  atmosphere 
of  old  world  tradition,  but  as  the  old  proverb  says, 
"Every  bird  finds  its  own  nest  charming."  Now, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  all  birds'-nests  are  not  equally 
well  located  or  built.  The  oriole  weaves  a  sky  cradle 
moated  by  the  free  air,  the  cuckoo  throws  together 
a  few  sticks  in  a  bush  —  each  to  her  taste.  The  only 
bird  despised  and  scorned  of  all  is  the  outcast,  the 
cowbird,  to  whom,  having  none  of  her  own,  all  nests 
are  equal  and  a  matter  of  indifference.  The  only 
being  so  despised  is  the  songster  without  a  nest  to 
uphold. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  83 

My  nest  is  America,  Evan's  England,  and  the 
interweaving  of  the  two  makes  the  most  logical  com- 
bination possible.  But  why  should  I  expect  Evan 
to  move  his  building  materials  overseas  to  join  mine 
instead  of  the  reverse  ?  Because  of  a  fact  in  the 
law,  also  of  the  joyous  republic  of  Birdland,  to  which 
I  would  call  the  attention  of  all  conscientious  women 
with  foreign  husbands.  //  is  the  female  who  always 
chooses  the  nesting  site.  'Nature  rules  that  the  loca- 
tion of  the  home  is  of  more  vital  importance  to  her 
whose  life  is  of  the  home,  and  nests  are  also  usually 
located  in  the  region  of  the  best  food  supply — there- 
fore America ! 


Some  of  my  guests  expressed  curiosity  as  to  what 
I  should  do  for  amusement  in  such  a  quiet  place, 
as  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  amuse  myself  in  years 
gone,  and  I  foolishly  unfolded  to  them  in  part  my 
garden  hopes,  which  they  straightway  translated 
according  to  their  different  temperaments  to  mean 
everything  from  an  Italian  garden  with  terraces, 
statues,  a  fountain,  and  clipped  green  walls  to  a 
market  garden  wherein  Evan  was  to  raise  cabbages 
and  afterward  peddle  them  for  a  living.  This  last 
notion  went  the  rounds  from  the  Village  Gossip  via 


84  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

the  Village  Liar  to  the  Emporium,  from  whence  it 
was  freely  distributed  up  the  road,  and  finally  found 
its  way  to  Evan  on  the  cars.  The  Emporium  is  not 
a  shop,  as  you  might  think,  but  a  very  genteel  middle- 
aged  widow  of  comfortable  means  whose  house 
stands  directly  at  the  head  of  the  village  street,  so 
that  people  taking  the  road  that  branches  on  the 
right  toward  the  town,  or  on  the  left  that  goes  up 
through  the  farming  region,  must  equally  pass  her 
door.  Thus,  being  in  a  position  to  hear  and  collect 
news,  she  is  also  conveniently  located  for  its  dis- 
tribution and  constitutes  herself  local  news  agent, 
an  occupation  she  greatly  enjoys,  and  quite  safely, 
as  she  keeps  her  own  skirts  clear  by  never  guaran- 
teeing her  wares  and  always  premising  a  bit  of  gos- 
sip by,  "  I  don't  know  if  it's  true,  but  they  do  say,'* 
etc.,  etc. 

I  knew  exactly  what  sort  of  flowers  I  meant  to 
have,  though  I  had  not  as  yet  quite  formulated 
their  grouping  so  as  to  explain  it  glibly  to  strangers. 
I  want  a  purely  American  garden,  which  may  be 
interpreted  as  anything  and  everything  that  will 
grow  in  our  sparkling  but  capricious  climate;  also 
everything  is  to  be  in  plenty  —  no  single  plants,  but 
great  masses  and  jungles  of  flowers  without  bare 
ground  showing  between. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  85 

Evan  has  sketched  me  a  rough  map  of  the  garden, 
showing  how  the  ground  could  be  utilized  to  the 
best  advantage  without  changing  its  characteristics, 
which  were  those  that  best  harmonized  with  the 
house.  This,  without  being  an  antique,  is  of  that 
respectable  no-period  style  of  the  forties,  when  we 
began  to  forsake  good,  foreign  models,  and  grope 
for  ourselves — a  style  that  is  best  summed  up  in 
the  words  Early  American.  Strange  to  say,  his 
plan  does  not  satisfy  me.  It  is  the  dearest,  sunniest, 
homiest  house  in  the  world,  and  yet  to  turn  the  acre 
of  ground  that  immediately  surrounds  it  into  the  copy 
of  an  Italian,  Dutch,  or  old  English  garden  would 
be  like  enclosing  it  in  a  practical  joke  so  cruel  as  to 
wound  its  most  sacred  sensibilities.  Quite  like  prof- 
fering Uncle  Sam  himself  a  cardinal's  hat  and  cloak 
for  daily  use,  or  forcing  him  to  wear  his  own  beaver 
with  the  uniform  of  a  French  field  marshal. 

"  What  is  an  American  garden  ?  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing,"  asked  Mrs.  Jenks-Smith,  the  good- 
natured  chatelaine  of  the  new  show  place,  The  Bluffs, 
on  the  river-bank,  to  which  Chris  has  transferred  his 
talent.  I  told  her  that  I  used  the  term  in  relation  to 
my  bit  of  garden  ground  framed  in  the  hillside 
woods,  of  which  it  had  originally  been  a  part; 
that  it  was  to  be  itself,  and  not  distorted  into  a  feeble 


86  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

imitation  of  the  classic  gardens  of  other  days  and 
times ;  that  I  would  not  have  it  tricked  out  with  the 
wearisome,  formal,  tartlike  beds  that  caused  Bacon 
to  groan,  even  if  the  cost  did  not  make  such  a 
thing  impossible  for  commuters  of  moderate  means. 
The  last  reason  was  within  her  comprehension. 

"  I  know  such  things  are  very  expensive,"  she 
continued,  with  a  sigh.  "  You  wouldn't  believe  what 
our  Italian  garden  cost,  with  digging  out  and 
filling  in.  My  dear,  we  had  to  fill  up  thirteen  feet 
deep  in  one  spot,  and  piping  the  water  for  the  pools, 
and  after  that  the  engine  to  run  the  fountain,  and 
the  electric  plant  to  light  up  at  night.  For  of  course 
the  trees  are  so  young  yet  that  there's  no  shade, 
and  it's  perfectly  impossible  to  go  out  there  in  the 
daytime.  And  it  was  so  thoughtless  too  in  our 
landscapist,  this  season  he  had  yellow  flowers  that 
close  at  night  put  in  one  of  the  most  conspic- 
uous places,  and  so  some  of  the  best  effects  are 
spoiled. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  coax  your  husband  next 
season  to  fit  us  up  with  a  list  of  night-blooming 
things.  I  suppose  he'd  be  reasonable  to  a  neighbour. 
By  the  way,  my  dear,  has  it  occurred  to  you  what  a 
grand  advertisement  for  him  it  would  be  to  have  a  good 
showy  Italian  garden  on  this  hillside  and  his  name  and 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  87 

business  address  on  a  rustic  sign  just  below  ?  It  can 
be  seen  a  mile  off  from  the  cars. 

"  Garden  wouldn't  match  the  house  ?  Neither  did 
ours,  but  we  put  on  a  whole  new  outside  all  stucco, 
you  know,  and  the  Prince  who  visited  us  last  summer 
said  he  only  had  to  close  his  eyes  to  think  himself  in 
Italy." 

Verily,  of  such  trials  as  these  are  calls  composed ; 
and  I  have  to  keep  my  temper  and  not  say  a 
word  of  what  rises  to  my  lips,  but  she  would  not 
have  understood  if  I  had,  poor  soul,  and  so  I  let 
her  clatter  on. 

"  Not  but  all  those  old  flowers  that  you've  had 
growing  for  ages  down  yonder  have  come  in  fash- 
ion again.  Yes,  isn't  it  strange  they're  quite  in  the 
swing,  and  those  hollyhock  roots  that  are  scat- 
tered everywhere  would  cost  a  lot  if  you  tried  to 
replace  them. 

"Why,  child,  nature  and  all  that  stuff  that  you 
and  the  doctor  always  thought  so  much  about  and 
spent  so  much  time  over  has  come  right  in  since 
you've  been  away.  There  is  a  princess  or  a  duchess 
or  somebody  (anyway  her  name's  in  an  almanac  — 
a  patent  medicine,  I  suppose,  but  I  don't  remember 
what  she  took  it  for),  and  she  lives  in  Germany  and 
is  named  Elizabeth,  and  she's  written  a  book  about 


88  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

her  garden,  and  it  made  such  things  the  rage.  I 
read  it  all  through,  thinking  I'd  get  a  great  many 
swagger  points,  but  I  didn't,  that  is,  not  on  gar- 
dening; but  she  was  so  chic,  just  did  everything  she 
wanted  to  and  never  got  rattled,  and  her  house  ran 
itself,  except  giving  out  the  sausages,  and  she 
only  looked  at  them.  Her  husband  didn't  count 
for  much  more  than  furniture,  for  he  liked  cab- 
bages and  wouldn't  dance,  so  how  could  he?  But 
the  children  were  so  useful  —  always  said  some- 
thing bright  at  the  right  time.  But  then,  she  had 
an  unusual  bringing-up  and  said  her  prayers  in 
French  while  her  mother  went  to  parties,  so 
you'd  expect  she'd  be  different. 

"  Now  you'll  be  right  in  it  and  not  thought  so 
queer  as  once.  And  as  for  birds,  bird  study's  all 
the  rage.  I've  stopped  wearing  feathers  anyway 
until  the  excitement  dies  down.  We've  stopped 
driving  birds  out  of  the  fruit,  and  put  up  boxes  to 
draw  them.  They  won't  come  in  them,  though, 
because  your  father  says  the  rooms  aren't  separate 
and  the  openings  draw  a  draft  through.  Though 
I  call  that  going  a  little  too  far,  as  if  birds  that  fly 
all  day  in  the  air  can't  stand  a  draft  at  night.  In 
the  spring  when  we  return  here  I'm  going  to  have 
a  bird  class,  and  a  professor  to  take  us  out  and 
point  out  the  birds. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  89 

"It's  awfully  nice,  my  dear,  much  easier  than 
giving  a  garden  party,  no  trouble,  no  fuss,  man- 
aged like  a  Cook's  tour  in  Europe.  He  tells  you 
everything  you  ought  to  see,  so  you  don't  have 
to  think,  you  know.  I  went  once  this  year  across 
the  river  where  I  was  visiting.  There  were  twenty 
ladies  in  such  becoming  outing  costumes,  and  such 
a  delicious  lunch,  served  quite  in  the  woods,  my 
dear.  When  we  were  eating  we  saw  a  quail !  Yes, 
with  its  feathers  on  and  all.  Did  you  ever  know 
anything  so  appropriate  ? 

"We  learned  two  other  birds  besides,  —  a  blue 
Jane,  and  the  other  was  a  red-eyed  virago"  [vireo]. 
"  I  remembered  the  name  as  so  appropriate  because 
the  bird  sang  or  scolded,  I  don't  know  which  you 
would  call  it,  all  the  time  we  were  lunching." 

As  I  think  of  that  well-meaning,  awful  woman 
I  nearly  choke,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  hear  Delia 
creaking  upstairs  with  my  luncheon,  which,  as 
father  has  gone  across  country  on  a  consultation,  I 
am  going  to  have  spread  on  the  window  seat  as  of 
old  when  it  rained  and  I  was  housed. 


VI 

A  RAINY  DAY 

AFTERNOON 

October  31  (afternoon).  I  have  already  declared 
that  I  am  about  to  try  the  joyous  uncertainty  of  an 
American  Garden.  I  desire  the  most  flowers  at  the 
least  cost,  as  befits  the  frugal  wife  of  a  commuter. 
Flowers  for  the  table,  flowers  to  go  to  town  with 
Evan  and  whisper  home  to  him  as  he  sits  in  his 
office.  Flowers  for  village  brides,  for  the  children, 
and  for  church  festivals,  and  flowers  to  make  the 
silent  journeys  from  the  hospital,  that  some  must  take, 
less  dreary  for  those  who  follow  them. 

I  know  what  I  may  expect  and  what  I  must  not. 
I  do  not  seek  to  duplicate  Kew  Garden  on  the  side 
lawn,  or  to  start  an  elaborate  scheme  and  en- 
deavour to  copy  in  a  few  years  what  has  taken  gen- 
erations of  old-world  growth  to  produce ;  for  like  the 
copy  of  an  old  master  the  imitation  garden  must 
lack  the  freedom  of  touch  of  the  original,  and  before 
time  has  mellowed  it,  the  unrest  that  is  in  a  sense 
90 


GARDEN   OF  A   COMMUTER'S  WIFE    91 

one  of  our  moulding  forces  will  have  pushed  the 
mimic  garden  into  other  hands  before  it  is  even  ripe. 
But  any  one  may  have  an  American  garden,  and  it 
is  such  as  these  alone  that  from  their  simplicity  and 
the  love  born  of  their  making  may  be  kept  from  gen- 
eration to  generation. 


However  simple  this  garden  of  mine  is  to  be,  I 
must  see  its  shaping  before  I  begin  even  to  plant  my 
bulbs,  or  confusion  will  be  my  portion.  A  little  mis- 
take now  may  mean  a  year's  delay. 

O  my  Garden  of  Dreams !  do  not  vanish  when  I 
am  ready  to  embody  you.  This  morning  father 
gave  me  mother's  garden  journal  from  the  little 
trunk  under  the  eaves.  To-night  is  Hallow-e'en ! 
Who  knows  but  if  I  sit  here  and  look  out  over  the 
leafless  garden  that  was,  that  a  vision  of  the  new 
will  come  from  between  the  morocco  covers  ? 

This  quiet  rain  is  very  soothing  to  my  impatience, 
and  the  little  splashes  that  drop  from  the  eaves  to 
the  piazza,  roof  below  with  first  a  single  and  then  a 
double  drip,  as  the  gutter  is  more  or  less  full,  seem  to 
say,  Wait,  wait,  wait,  Patience,  patience,  patience,  in 
a  coaxing  way. 

A  fair  amount  of  damp  and  rain  is  rather  good  for 


92  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

me,  otherwise  my  spirits  keep  so  volatile  that  they 
would  often  lead  my  body  a  sad  chase  if  it  were 
always  sunny  weather. 

In  spite  of  the  delay  in  planting,  this  day  is  a 
perfect  boon,  ministering  to  me  in  the  same  degree 
as  does  fresh  air,  a  drink  of  water,  or  sleep  at  other 
times. 

It  is  also  a  pleasure  to  be  in  the  attic  again.  One 
may  marry  and  leave,  and  life  seems  wholly  changed, 
but  a  room  remains  the  same,  year  in  and  year  out. 
The  furniture  consists  of  a  hammock,  divers  trunks 
and  chests,  one  an  odd  little  affair  from  which  the 
journals  came,  covered  with  the  mottled  skin  of  the 
hah*  seal,  the  key  to  which  father  wears  on  his  chain, 
an  ample  and  antique  haircloth  lounge,  two  shabby 
but  hospitable  chairs,  a  cupboard,  and  an  old  library 
table  that  makes  up  in  drawers  and  pigeonholes  for 
what  it  lacks  in  varnish.  At  first  the  drawers  are 
obstinate  and  decline  to  open.  Here  in  one  are 
papers  of  seeds  and,  of  all  things,  a  string  of  Dan'l's 
hickory-nut  beads  with  my  initial  cut  on  the  biggest 
or  king  bead,  as  we  used  to  call  it.  Truly,  I  am 
growing  old ! 

There  is  a  peculiar  odour  in  this  attic  on  rainy 
days  that  is  as  much  a  part  of  it  as  the  smell  of 
the  hickory  logs  in  the  stove,  the  familiar  furniture, 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  93 

and  the  view  from  the  window.  During  the  past 
two  years  when  I  have  closed  my  eyes,  led  by 
memory  I  have  gone  from  room  to  room  of  the  ram- 
bling house,  and  trodden  every  inch  of  the  home 
soil  from  the  path  beneath  the  Mother  Tree  in  the 
garden  to  the  farther  side  of  the  field  toward  the 
bars  where  the  wild  apple  blossoms  make  a  rosy 
wall.  When  I  arrived  at  the  attic,  the  room  and 
the  odour  always  came  together,  —  the  pungent,  waxy 
smell  of  wasps ! 

To-day,  in  addition  to  wasps  and  wood  smoke, 
a  third  tincture  is  added,  —  wet  dogs !  Bluff  is 
here  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  owing  to  his  long 
hair  and  affectionate  disposition,  his  fragrance  is 
the  most  in  evidence  of  the  five.  It  has  been  very 
amusing  to  watch  Bluff,  for  his  perturbation  of 
mind  as  to  whether  he  should  follow  father  or 
me  is  singular.  The  first  week  he  bounced  wildly 
hither  and  thither  as  if  he  had  lost  his  wits,  not 
being  able  to  decide  what  to  do  ;  but  during  the 
past  few  days  he  has  adhered  to  an  evidently 
thought-out  plan  of  following  the  Stanhope  in  the 
morning  and  staying  with  me  in  the  afternoon, 
that  is,  unless  I  then  go  out  also,  in  which  case 
he  continues  to  follow  until  he  begins  to  lag,  and 
we  stop  and  pull  him  into  the  gig,  where  he  lies 


94  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

blissfully  content  at  my  feet,  occasionally  giving  my 
shoes  a  furtive  and  affectionate  lick  as  he  used  to 
the  birds  he  retrieved. 

Pat,  the  wire-haired  terrier,  was  a  six-weeks 
puppy  when  I  went  away.  He  had  been  given 
to  father  by  a  dog  breeder  in  the  next  village,  in 
an  outburst  of  gratitude  for  a  little  bit  of  deft 
surgery  that  he  had  done  in  the  goodness  of  his 
heart  for  a  pet  dog  which  the  man  loved  with  the 
intensity  that  some  rough  natures  feel  for  dumb 
animals.  There  was  no  veterinary  surgeon  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  father  was  always  willing  to 
aid  animals  where  his  knowledge  was  applicable,  re- 
gardless of  professional  criticism,  thcugh  he  would 
not  accept  fees  for  such  services. 

The  natural  result  had  been  that  there  was  never 
a  dearth  of  animals  about  the  place.  I  have  always 
counted  from  one  to  half  a  dozen  dogs  at  my 
heels  since  babyhood,  and  it  was  invariably  a  small 
dog  with  a  blanket  pinned  on  shawl  fashion  that 
rode  in  my  little  carriage  instead  of  the  orthodox 
doll. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Pat  should  re- 
member me,  and  in  truth  he  did  not.  Bluff,  how- 
ever, had  evidently  told  him  all  the  facts  of  the 
case  and  impressed  him  in  my  favour ;  for  he  is  now 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  95 

continually  sneaking  away  from  Tim,  with  whom  he 
has  always  lived  at  the  stable,  and  nosing  me  out. 
Then  when  I  am  found,  he  stands  with  his  body 
drawn  backward,  one  ear  cocked  and  the  other 
lopping  over,  a  grin  on  his  homely,  hairy  face,  as 
with  a  sort  of  twinkle  of  the  eye  he  gives  a  few 
short  barks,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Did  you  think 
you  could  hide  from  such  a  thing  as  a  red-haired 
Irish  terrier  by  the  name  of  Pat?" 

He  is  a  respecter  of  dog  law,  however,  and  never 
ventures  to  lie  on  my  feet  when  Bluff  is  by.  Senior- 
ity rules  in  dog-land,  where  the  oldest  resident,  be  he 
great  or  small,  strong  or  feeble,  quarrelsome  or  easy- 
going, is  King  and  the  final  authority  on  matters  of 
etiquette.  No  one  disputes  his  rule,  that  is,  no  full- 
grown  dog  of  gentlemanly  instincts ;  of  course  the 
gambols  of  puppies  do  not  count.  Sedate  old  dogs 
always  tolerate  them,  sometimes  administering  a  very 
mild  cuff  when  awakened  from  after-dinner  naps  by 
having  their  ears  chewed  by  the  restless  pups.  But 
quite  as  often  they  sit  blinking  and  gratified  with  the 
antics,  wearing  very  much  the  same  expression  as 
a  big  human  whose  hair  is  pulled  and  mouth  pried 
open  by  a  rollicking  pink-fisted  baby. 

Bluff's  field  companion,  Lark,  though  only  half  his 
age,  is  lying  almost  under  the  stove ;  his  soft  white 


96  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

coat  lightly  touched  with  black  is  in  a  sad  condition 
being  thickly  matted  with  burrs. 

He  forgot  himself  last  evening  and  his  dignity  as  a 
bird-dog,  to  go  out  with  some  farmers  and  their 
clever  mongrel  curs  with  whom  he  was  acquainted, 
on  a  coon  hunt.  The  poor  fellow  didn't  even  get  a 
sniff  at  the  coon,  but  brought  home  half  the  burrs 
and  sticktights  this  side  of  the  charcoal  camp,  mak- 
ing a  nice  bit  of  work  for  me ;  for  as  soon  as  he  is 
rested,  I  must  get  him  in  shape  again  with  the  aid  of 
an  oily  comb.  Then  Tim  can  wash  him,  but  Tim  is 
too  rough  with  a  comb.  You  mustn't  lunge  at  the 
silky  coat  of  a  beautiful  Gordon  setter  with  the  same 
vigorous  swish  that  is  used  to  curry  a  horse. 

The  last  two  dogs  of  the  group  are  twins,  young 
fox  hounds  of  something  under  a  year,  and  full  of 
promise.  They  have  good  bone,  and  are  coated  in 
white  and  tan  with  a  shading  of  black  that  brings 
out  their  points.  Their  drooping  ears  are  well  set, 
and  their  eyes  of  lustrous  softness  seem  to  follow 
every  movement  that  I  make.  This  is  their  first  visit 
to  the  attic  and  its  rainy-day  comfort,  so  they  are 
lying  humbly  on  the  outside  of  the  stove  circle  as 
befits  newcomers. 

They  belong  to  Evan  and  me,  having  been  sent  to 
welcome  us  on  our  return  by  a  countryman  of  his  in 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  97 

a  southern  state  who  keeps  quite  a  pack  and  does 
cross-country  hunting.  Such  fox  hunting  as  we 
have  in  the  back  country  here  is  an  annual  combina- 
tion of  sport  and  dire  necessity.  When  the  red  foxes 
of  the  heavily  brushed  lowlands  that  divide  the  hills 
grow  aggressive  with  keen  autumn  appetite  and 
haunt  the  chicken  yards,  then  the  sporting  farmers 
and  a  few  others  who  have  energy  and  good  legs  and 
lungs  set  out  with  dogs  and  guns,  drive  to  the  point 
nearest  the  holes,  tie  up,  then  take  to  their  feet ;  and 
when  the  dogs,  a  mixture  of  rabbit  dogs,  coon  curs, 
and  a  half  dozen  real  hounds,  have  started  the  fox, 
the  men  join  the  chase  afoot,  finally  shooting  the  fox 
when  it  is  cornered. 

I'm  afraid  that  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  Evan 
can  be  brought  to  this  style  of  hunting ;  for  shooting 
a  fox  is  a  crime  in  England,  where  it  is  considered 
more  sportsmanlike  to  let  the  dogs  rend  it.  But  in 
this  rough  and  tumble  region  of  rock  ledges  and 
gullies,  cross-country  riding  is  an  impossibility,  and 
so  we  take  the  shortest  cut  to  the  end  to.  rid  our- 
selves, or  at  least  keep  down  the  prowlers.  The 
Humane  Society  once  urged  father  to  introduce  the 
custom  of  trapping  instead,  as  it  expressed  it,  of 
"  teaching  one  animal  to  chase  another  "  ;  but  some- 
how it  was  very  unpopular,  the  foxes  wouldn't  be 


98  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

caught,  and  all  that  the  people  accomplished  was 
to  catch  each  other's  dogs,  who  went  hunting  on 
their  own  account. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Bugle  and  Tally-ho  have  become 
intelligent  members  of  the  family  in  a  short  time,  and 
made  their  first  trip  up  two  flights  of  stairs  in  a  very 
creditable  manner  without  undue  bumping.  How 
they  will  go  down  is  another  matter.  If  they  hesi- 
tate, Bluff  will  probably  push  them,  for  he  gave  both 
Lark  and  Pat  their  first  lessons  in  stair  climbing. 

The  clouds  are  breaking  away,  and  I  think  my 
mind  is  also  clearing  as  regards  my  garden.  I  will 
let  it  keep  its  inheritance.  The  Mother  Tree  shall 
be  its  keynote. 

From  these  two  windows  I  gain  not  only  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  the  stretch  of  our  own  land,  once  a  farm 
lying  a  little  aside  the  top  of  one  of  a  series  of  slop- 
ing hills,  but  also  its  relation  to  the  surrounding 
country. 

The  house  stands  higher  than  the  road,  from  which 
it  is  divided  by  some  great  elms,  clusters  of  shrubs, 
and  a  bit  of  grass.  This  bank  is  kept  from  falling 
into  the  road  by  a  wall,  the  stones  of  which  are 
hidden  by  a  tangle  of  honeysuckle.  At  the  north  a 
driveway  to  the  stable  makes  the  division  from  a  strip 
of  woodland  from  which  the  underbrush  has  been 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  99 

trimmed.  This  wood  straggles  in  a  half  circle 
toward  west  and  south,  out  into  a  hillside  pasture. 
Back  of  the  house  is  the  vegetable  garden  plotted  in 
neat  squares,  edged  with  fruit  bushes  and  trees,  on 
the  farther  side  of  which  lie  the  long  tangled  beds 
of  mother's  hardy  flowers. 

These  beds  start  at  the  Mother  Tree  at  the  north- 
west corner.  On  the  right  the  higher  ground  makes 
a  sort  of  wall,  against  which  honeysuckle  has  been 
let  to  run  wild.  On  the  left  the  ground  is  level.  The 
walk  falls  gently  with  the  curve  of  the  land  until  it 
stops  abruptly  at  what  was  once  a  strawberry  bed, 
but  is  now  a  flat  bit  of  grass  perhaps  fifty  feet 
square,  beyond  which  is  the  wild  land,  only  broken 
by  the  old  cart  track  and  a  meandering  cowpath 
that  threads  through  hemlocks,  birches,  and  cedars 
to  a  disused  bar  gate. 

Behind  the  apple  tree,  screening  it  from  the 
stable,  is  a  stiff  arbour  made  picturesque  by  sturdy 
climbing  roses  that  have  been  long  unpruned.  One 
thing  is  certain,  the  hardy  beds  are  in  a  charming 
spot,  with  a  high  background  on  one  side  for  the 
taller  plants,  and  open  a  lovely  vista  from  the  seat 
under  the  tree  and  down  over  the  fields.  This  much 
shall  remain,  —  the  great  clumps  of  herbaceous 
flowers  transplanted,  thinned  out  and  alcoved  by 


ioo  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

shrubs  making  a  sort  of  cloister  walk  from  the  past 
through  the  present  to  the  future. 

How  everything  material  and  spiritual,  if  it  is  well 
rounded,  groups  itself  into  the  mystic  three.  Past, 
present,  and  future.  God,  nature,  man.  Father, 
mother,  child. 

Ah,  it  is  shaping,  my  Garden  of  Dreams!  The 
eye  of  the  garden  shall  be  the  sundial,  that  bit  from 
Evan's  past  blending  with  mine. 

Though  I  dislike  a  set  straight  garden  above  all 
things,  Evan  says  that  a  bit  of  formality  often  clari- 
fies wildness  and  gives  it  focus,  so  some  beds  of 
summer  flowers  around  the  sundial,  with  grass  left 
between  for  paths,  will  make  a  restful  break  in 
the  view.  Beyond,  we  might  continue  a  plant-edged 
walk  in  the  wake  of  the  cowpath  quite  down  to  the 
old  bars,  and  turn  them  into  a  stile.  However  I 
must  not  plan  too  fast,  but  leave  beyond  the  dial  to 
Evan.  That  is  the  future  part  of  the  dream. 

Mother  wrote  in  her  garden  journal,  now  open  in 
my  lap,  during  the  first  year  of  her  marriage,  "  David 
has  had  a  seat  made  under  the  sweet  apple  tree  and 
a  walk  running  from  it  to  the  strawberry  bed.  I 
shall  plant  my  flowers  on  either  side  both  for  con- 
venience and  to  frame  path  and  view  as  well.  If 
I  may  plant  ten  or  fifteen  feet  every  year,  I  shall  be 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  101 

content,  for  the  garden  should  be  a  pleasure,  not  a 
burden." 

Dear  mother  barely  reached  the  strawberries  in 
those  five  years,  but  in  spite  of  godmother's  fifty 
pounds  I  too  must  be  careful  about  expansion;  for,  as 
Evan  says,  it  isn't  the  first  outlay  of  strength  or  money 
that  will  upset  us,  but  the  fixed  charges,  while  father 
jokingly  adds  that  the  cause  of  much  physical  and 
all  mental  disease  is  "  biting  off  more  than  one  can 
chew."  How  I  shall  have  to  set  my  teeth  and  quell 
my  garden  appetite !  The  garden  will  be  so  much 
more  lovable  continued  as  it  began.  New  things  and 
places  are  so  terribly  lonely.  Fortunately,  after  all, 
there  is  but  one  suitable  spot  hereabout  for  a  garden, 
and  that  is  where  it  now  is. 

How  blessed  I  am  in  having  the  responsibility  and 
temptation  of  choice  removed  from  me  !  I  might 
break  loose  and  be  ruined  by  visionary  schemes. 
Heredities  may  be  horrible  ghoulish  things  if  they 
are  bad,  but  when  good,  surely  nothing  can  equal 
them.  Imagine  how  terrifying  it  would  be  if  we  had 
to  decide  the  beginnings  of  things  for  ourselves :  as 
to  what  race  we  should  belong,  what  sex,  and  all  that, 
instead  of  placidly  coming  out  of  unconsciousness  to 
find  it  all  arranged !  Then  suppose  falling  in  love 
and  going  away  with  one's  husband  were  not  a 


102  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

custom   all  over  the   world,  how  strange  it  would 
be! 

It  is  growing  dusky  in  among  the  rafters,  but  the 
Garden  of  Dreams  is  every  moment  growing  more 
distinct  to  my  waking  vision.  To-night  Evan  must 
put  it  all  down  on  paper  for  me,  so  that  I  shall 
not  forget  or  make  mistakes.  What  is  that  noise  ? 
Really,  I  can  imagine  that  I  see  strange  shapes  mov- 
ing among  the  rafters.  The  dogs  are  all  alert. — Ah ! 
only  the  telephone  bell  in  the  hall. 


Evan  has  just  called  me  to  say  that  he  has 
arranged  to  stay  at  home  all  day  to-morrow!  We 
have  agreed  not  to  use  the  long-distance  line 
except  for  emergencies,  such  as  his  being  unex- 
pectedly detained  in  town  over  night,  for  it  is  so 
expensive.  But  he  knew  how  I  have  been  longing 
to  have  him  here  for  a  week  day,  so  that  we  might 
realize  everything  again,  and  decide  the  garden 
plan,  and  he  would  not  keep  me  waiting  to  know 
of  it  for  even  an  hour. 

It  is  quite  dark  now  when  he  comes  home,  so  we 
carry  a  flash  lantern  when  he  takes  his  after-dinner 
cigar  walk,  that  we  may  neither  run  into  trees  nor 
fall  into  the  new  violet  frame  while  we  tell  of  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  103 

day's  work.     Oh,  the  joy  of  the  telling,  when  every 
commonest  detail  means  so  muchl 


Really,  I  must  be  careful  what  I  say,  or  rather 
sing,  in  the  presence  of  these  dogs;  for  a  moment 
ago  I  gave  vent  to  my  feelings  of  joy  in  a  bit  of 
a  song  that  was  between  a  cheer  and  a  yodel,  and 
those  two  hounds  first  raised  their  heads  and  bayed 
as  if  it  was  night,  and  the  full  moon  shining  in 
their  kennel,  then  dashed  about  the  attic  at  full 
cry.  Next  Lark  took  it  up.  Bluff  tried  to  copy 
until  he  choked,  and  Pat  yelped. 

Delia  the  waitress  immediately  appeared  with  a 
white,  scared  face,  out  of  breath  from  running  up- 
stairs, saying  that  in  the  old  country  such  keening 
always  meant  death. 

Hardly  had  she  disappeared  when  Martha  Corkle 
the  decorous,  knocked,  begged  pardon,  but  the 
sound  of  the  hounds  had  given  her  such  a  turn 
she'd  nearly  dropped  the  soup  kettle,  and  it  made 
her  feel  more  settled  and  at  home  than  anything 
since  she  came.  From  that  moment  Bugle  and 
Tally-ho  never  lacked  food,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
any  dog  mischief  that  was  done  in  Delia's  precinct 
was  laid  to  their  charge. 


104     GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S  WIFE 

Tim  is  coming  up  the  road  with  the  great  wagon 
and  two  big  boxes,  one  long  and  one  square.  What 
can  they  be?  The  sundial,  of  course.  Pedestal 
and  top.  For  though  it  left  before  we  did,  being 
freight,  it  was  delayed. 

To-morrow  Evan  will  be  here,  and  we  will  have 
a  festival  and  set  the  dial ;  that  is,  if  we  can  agree 
upon  the  place,  and  it  is  good  weather.  Ah,  there 
is  a  red  streak  in  the  west,  and  it  is  widening.  It 
is  almost  train  time.  I  will  drive  down  for  Evan 
myself,  and  tell  him  that  our  talisman  has  come. 


VII 

A   BIRTHDAY   BREAKFAST 

November  i.  Why  has  no  one  written  a  November 
rhapsody  with  plenty  of  lilt  and  swing  ?  The  poets 
who  are  moved  at  all  by  this  month  seem  only 
stirred  to  lamentation,  giving  us  year  end  and 
"  melancholy  days "  remarks,  thereby  showing  that 
theory  is  stronger  than  observation  among  the  rhym- 
ing brotherhood,  or  else  that  they  have  chronic  indi- 
gestion and  no  gardens  to  stimulate  them. 

Of  course  I  do  not  know  what  November  might 
mean  to  some  one  living  away  from  his  kind  without 
love,  in  a  cheerless  house,  lacking  adequate  means  of 
heating  or  light,  with  no  bath  tub,  and  a  well  low 
from  summer  droughts,  the  sort  of  being  whose  intel- 
ligence dries  away  in  autumn  like  the  leaves,  and 
whose  breath  of  life  merely  nickers  half  dormant 
until  the  spring  sun  forces  it  to  quicken  in  spite  of 
itself. 

The  strange  part  of  it  is  that  so  many  city  folk  asso- 
ciate this  state  of  woodchuck  existence  with  the  real 
105 


io6  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

country  life,  whereas  the  intelligent  country  life,  if  it 
is  lived  and  not  merely  toyed  with  in  an  amateurish 
manner,  is  a  full,  sparkling,  strenuous  course,  calling 
for  a  more  inventive  brain  and  greater  activity  than 
that  of  the  city  in  proportion  as  its  satisfaction  is 
greater.  The  difference  is  that  in  the  city  at  best 
one  lives  the  life  of  others,  the  life  of  the  shop,  the 
street,  the  crowd,  while  in  the  country  one  must  live 
one's  own  life.  A  selfish,  warped,  narrow  life,  some 
say  ?  Doubtless  it  might  he  ;  but  if  one  has  a  home 
to  keep,  a  husband  weaving  his  web  daily  to  and  fro, 
and  a  country  doctor,  vibrating  with  sympathies  of 
many  lives,  for  a  father,  the  pulse  can  never  beat 
slow  nor  the  heart  grow  cold. 

I  am  daily  realizing  that  it  is  a  liberal  education  of 
both  heart  and  head  simply  to  be  Evan's  wife  and  my 
father's  daughter.  Father's  private  means,  though 
small  comparatively,  enable  him  to  keep  abreast  of 
outside  affairs  and  the  newest  methods  of  his  profes- 
sion, so  that  he  can  do  the  best  possible  for  his 
poorest  patient,  regardless  of  fees  or  criticism,  thus 
carrying  comfort  and  hope  miles  beyond  the  usual 
limited  circuit  when  controlled  by  mere  pay. 

The  saying  that  "  shoemaker's  children  lack 
shoes  "  is  simply  a  criticism  of  the  relations  between 
the  children  and  their  cobbler  parent.  The  parental 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  107 

attitude  toward  his  trade  evidently  was  not  such  as  to 
make  it  interesting  in  his  children's  eyes,  otherwise 
they  would  not  only  have  thought  shoes  desirable,,  but 
have  learned  to  make  them. 

Father's  attitude  toward  his  profession  has  always 
made  it  seem  to  me  like  the  highest  expression  of 
the  religion  of  humanity.  To  do  the  highest  duty 
amid  the  scenes  in  which  his  life  is  set  frorn  lonely 
farm  to  the  hovels  of  factory  and  brick-yard  workers 
in  the  town,  the  healer  of  the  body  must  also  at  need 
become  the  soother  and  strengthener  of  the  soul. 
Was  it  not  this  revelation  of  spiritualized  humanity 
that  the  Master  preached  and  practised  when  he 
cleansed  the  lepers,  bade  Lazarus  come  forth,  and 
comforted  the  dying  thief  with  the  positive  promise 
of  things  beyond  ? 

I  think  also  that  a  certain  knowledge  of  the 
processes  of  natural  law,  so  that  the  facts  of  it  come 
to  one  unconsciously  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  pre- 
vents many  shocks  and  jars  that  would  otherwise 
meet  a  woman  on  entering  the  world  that  lies  out- 
side of  the  protecting  doors  of  home.  While  a 
knowledge  of  the  evil  of  breaking  these  laws  as  seen 
by  the  results,  even  in  one  little  hospital,  must  make 
one's  relations  to  the  race  more  sane  and  sound. 

Surely  the   country   life   is   not    as   wholly   com- 


108  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

pounded  of  vegetation  as  the  city  dweller  imagines. 
The  cockney  who  thinks  that  he  has  summed  up 
the  essence  of  torpidity  when  he  speaks  of  people 
who  "vegetate  in  the  country,"  simply  illustrates 
his  own  ignorance  and  that  he  does  not  even  know 
the  life  history  of  a  turnip.  For,  taking  the  term 
literally,  few  things  live  more  hurried  and  pushing 
lives  than  vegetables. 

Vegetables  are  chiefly  articles  upon  which  the 
very  life  of  the  world  depends;  they  do  a  great 
deal  of  work,  and  do  it  in  private  —  a  method  of 
which  most  people  have  no  conception,  as  not  to 
live  in  public  is  to  them  the  equivalent  of  death. 
Also  to  be  a  successful  vegetable  requires  great 
energy ;  for  not  only  must  it  work  hard  during  the 
growing  season,  keeping  its  health  and  digestion 
in  order  often  on  scanty  and  variable  rations,  but 
it  must  provide,  either  by  seed  or  the  storing  up  in 
bulb,  tuber,  or  rootstock,  enough  strength  to  insure 
its  further  existence. 


To  return  to  November  and  its  praise;  mine  is 
conclusive,  being  both  material  and  sentimental, 
and  stated  in  a  few  words.  To-day  has  been  one 
of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life,  and  it  is  November 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  109 

first.  True,  Aunt  Lot  surprised  us  by  coming  in  by 
the  evening  train,  Reverend  Jabez  being  now  located 
at  Centreville,  thirty  miles  off,  to  get  some  winter 
flannels  that  she  left  packed  away  and  offer  me 
advice  as  to  household  management.  But  she  has 
not  damaged  the  day,  for  father  has  kindly  lured 
her  into  his  study;  she  merely  acted  as  a  sort  of 
nightcap  under  whose  influence,  together  with  the 
result  of  an  entire  day  out  of  doors,  Evan  and  I  crept 
somnolently  into  our  den  to  sit  in  the  big  armchair 
in  front  of  the  wood  fire,  and  whisper  about  things 
that  could  be  perfectly  well  spoken  aloud;  but  to 
make  people  tiptoe  and  whisper  is  Aunt  Lot's  effect 
upon  every  one. 

"  Why  are  we  sitting  here,  instead  of  entertaining 
your  Aunt  Lot?"  Evan  asked  contentedly,  without 
making  any  effort  to  move. 

"Because  we  are  rude  and  perfectly  frank  heathens. 
We  don't  care  to  see  her,  for  she  wasn't  nice  about 
our  being  married,  and  so  we  do  not  pretend  we  do. 
We  do  not  care  a  bit  because  the  roof  of  the  parson- 
age pantry  leaked  and  spoiled  her  season's  jam  and 
jelly;  we  don't  care  that  the  'four  youngest'  are  badly 
disciplined  and  a  trial;  instead,  we  feel  very  sorry 
for  them. 

"Then   she   is   sure  to    have   speeches  to  make 


no  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

about  my  duty  to  you,  quite  forgetting  that  in  her 
wrath  two  years  ago  she  summed  you  up  as  '  one  of 
those  foreign  adventurers.'  Yet  I  suppose  I  must 
go  in,"  I  said  dubiously. 

But  I  didn't  go.  Evan  said  it  would  be  undutiful 
to  him. 

I  wonder  if  she  and  the  Reverend  Jabez  ever  sit 
in  the  same  chair  in  front  of  the  fire !  Evan  says 
they  probably  have  an  oil  stove,  and  of  course  no 
one  would  care  to  sit  by  that ! 


The  day  began  for  me  at  half  past  six  o'clock. 
Not  that  I  got  up  then.  I  merely  roused  suffi- 
ciently to  go  over  to  the  window-seat  and  see  if 
the  weather  promised  well. 

It  has  been  an  opalescent  day.  When  I  looked 
out  this  morning,  the  opal  was  dull  with  barely  a 
flush;  everything  was  a  mysterious  pearly  gray. 
Season,  location,  time,  equally  veiled  by  the  fog 
that  remained  to  tell  of  yesterday's  downpour.  One 
thing,  however,  this  fog  surely  indicated,  —  that  the 
weather  was  still  mild,  as  a  cold  northwest  wind 
would  have  swept  the  world  dry,  while  the  first 
thing  that  the  window  revealed  would  have  been 
the  top  of  the  bare  gray  maples  that  bound  us  on 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  in 

the  lower  side  of  the  hill.  The  silence  was  com- 
plete, not  even  the  plash  of  a  drop  of  water  or  a 
ripple  in  the  sea  of  fog.  Suddenly  the  sun,  only 
clear  of  the  horizon,  burned  solidly  through  the 
mist,  a  fire  opal  whose  glints  of  green,  scarlet, 
yellow,  and  purple  were  caught  by  every  leafless 
twig  and  woven  in  a  filmy  tissue  that  covered  the 
grass. 

All  day  yesterday  a  flock  of  despondent  robins 
took  shelter  in  the  honeysuckles  of  the  porch  and 
in  the  hemlock  hedge.  The  old  birds  were  silent, 
the  young  males,  however,  occasionally  giving  a 
call  or  trying  a  few  notes,  as  it  were,  to  cheer  them- 
selves; but  it  was  a  sad  autumnal  sound  with  a 
sort  of  pibroch  wail  to  it. 

This  morning  however,  they  were  all  darting 
about  across  the  lawn,  and  one,  close  above  the 
window,  confided  to  my  ear  quite  four  bars  of  an 
advance  spring  song. 

How  we  are  all  more  or  less  creatures  of  Sun, 
Shadow,  and  Imagination,  impressed  or  depressed 
by  weather!  As  the  musical  robin  flew  to  join 
his  mates,  I  remembered  that  it  was  to  be  a  holiday 
with  Evan  at  home,  and  the  consequent  agreement 
to  disagree  between  Exact  Time  and  Breakfast,  so 
I  curled  up  comfortably  in  bed  again,  not  intend- 


112  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

ing  to  doze,  but  merely  realize  the  luxurious  state 
of  things.  This  enjoyment  of  an  occasional  late 
breakfast  is  one  of  the  joys  of  the  commuter  and 
his  wife  which  is  denied  the  blase  beings  who  always 
breakfast  in  winter  at  eight  or  nine.  As  for  spring 
and  summer  mornings,  who  but  a  cripple  could  lie 
in  bed  ? 

In  spite  of  my  intention  I  fell  asleep,  for  the  next 
thing  I  remember,  the  tall  clock  down  in  the  hall 
whirred  and  struck  eight  times,  accompanied  by  the 
baying  with  which  the  hounds  always  answered  its 
warning  when  within  earshot.  Evan  was  missing, 
while  strange  noises  on  the  piazza  at  the  back  of  the 
house  whetted  my  naturally  rampant  curiosity,  and 
made  me  dress  in  a  very  incoherent  fashion  and 
hurry  downstairs. 

Where  was  Evan  ?  Father  was  at  the  breakfast 
table.  Delia  fluttered  about  in  a  conscious  way,  and 
as  I  entered  the  room,  Evan  dodged  in  at  the  opposite 
side  through  a  long  window,  looking  quite  guilty  and 
with  marks  of  the  soil  on  the  knees  of  his  knicker- 
bockers, his  feet,  and  hands :  the  latter  he  hid  in  the 
pockets  of  his  coat.  Then  as  I  glanced  at  the  table 
almost  covered  with  flowers,  I  realized  that  it  was  my 
birthday,  and  that  somebody  had  taken  a  long  drive 
to  the  greenhouse  in  town  while  I  was  still  sleeping, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  113 

and  somebody  else  had  a  present  that  he  was  trying 
to  conceal. 

"Which  am  I  to  sit  by  for  these?"  I  said,  as  I 
turned  from  the  flowers  to  the  two  men,  who  looked 
expectant. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  go  over  on  purpose,  dear  child,"  said 
father,  quite  innocently,  drawing  me  down  for  his 
twenty-five  kisses.  "I  often  make  my  trip  to  the 
hospital  early  to  take  them  unawares.  It  is  well,  you 
know,  sometimes.  Yes,  to  be  sure,  this  is  rather  ear- 
lier than  usual,  but  then,  daughter,  I  wanted  to  have 
a  longer  day  with  my  children  at  home." 

Meanwhile  Delia  brought  in  the  coffee  biggin  and 
lit  the  lamp  (I  make  the  coffee,  Martha  being  too 
thoroughly  steeped  in  English  tea  making  to  compass 
the  mystery).  Still  Evan  did  not  sit  down,  but  fidg- 
eted about  by  the  window. 

Seeking  the  cause,  I  too  looked  out,  and  there  on 
the  piazza,  was  what  at  a  glance  seemed  to  be  the 
stock  in  trade  of  a  nurseryman,  all  arranged  sys- 
tematically. There  were  bags  of  bulbs,  rows  of 
prickly  though  leafless  roses  with  their  roots  tied  in 
balls  of  moss,  topless  herbaceous  plants,  only  iden- 
tifiable by  their  labels ;  a  line  of  well-grown  shrubs 
leaned  against  the  house,  their  roots,  also,  protected 
with  moss,  while  in  the  walk,  quite  safe  and  sound, 


114  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

reposed  the  sundial.  Evan  had  not  only  unpacked 
and  sorted  the  modest  supply  of  things  I  had 
ordered,  but  supplemented  them  by  those  which  he 
knew  we  should  need,  and  being  slow  of  growth 
ought  to  be  planted  without  delay. 

Father  and  Evan  are  never  so  handsome  or  happy 
as  when  they  have  planned  a  surprise  for  me,  and  as 
they  are  doing  this  almost  every  day,  you  can  easily 
judge  of  the  personal  appearance  and  temper  of  my 
two  lovers  without  further  description. 

In  order  to  give  each  his  due  I  pushed  over  three 
chairs  close  together  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and 
sat  in  the  middle  one  myself. 

When  the  second  part  of  the  breakfast  should  have 
appeared,  a  lull  occurred,  unnoticed  at  first,  there  was 
so  much  to  talk  about.  However,  as  we  all  wished 
to  go  out,  after  a  reasonable  time  I  rang  for  Delia, 
who  had  disappeared,  and  told  her  to  serve  the 
steak. 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  changed  her 
mind,  and  went  into  the  pantry,  where  I  heard 
whispering.  In  a  moment  Martha  Corkle  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  her  hands  clasped  over  a  faultless 
white  apron,  her  bosom  heaving. 

A  shocked  expression  jarred  her  countenance  as 
she  saw  us  all  in  a  bunch  on  one  side  of  the  table 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  115 

as  if  blown  there  by  a  storm.  I  must  acknowledge 
that  we  were  not  behaving  in  a  conventional  British 
breakfast  manner.  Evan  had  stuck  roses  in  my 
hair,  and  I  had  put  one  in  every  buttonhole  of  his 
velveteen  coat,  which  he  wore  over  a  sweater,  while 
a  single  bud  was  tucked  over  father's  nearest  ear  — 
a  fact  of  which  he  was  blissfully  unconscious,  as 
he  gave  Martha  the  kindly  and  fraternal  smile  with 
which  he  invariably  greeted  her  over  the  top  of  his 
paper,  having  refrained  from  handshaking  since 
the  night  of  our  arrival. 

"  The  steak  is  gone,  Mrs.  Evan,  stole  and  gone, 
ma'am,  by  what  ways  it  isn't  for  me  to  say.  It 
was  as  fine  a  cut  as  ever  I've  handled,  leastwise  in 
this  'ouse.  Two  and  a  quarter  in  weight,  without 
the  end  that  I  always  trims  off  for  the  soup  stock, 
Mrs.  Evan.  It  was  there  when  I  cast  my  eye 
through  the  ice-chest  after  last  night's  dinner;  this 
mornin'  it  was  gone." 

"  Could  the  dogs  have  helped  themselves  to  it  ? " 
suggested  Evan,  chuckling  at  Martha's  perturbation. 
"  You  might  have  taken  it  out  without  thinking  and 
left  it  on  the  table,  you  know,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I 
remember  once  long  ago  that  you  rowed  a  lot 
about  my  taking  a  cold  fowl  and  a  ham  shank  to 
make  a  feast  for  some  boating  chaps,  and  my 


Ii6  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

mother  reminded  you  that  we  ate  them  the  day 
before  in  a  pie !  " 

"  Mr.  Evan,  a  sober  woman  doesn't  so  mistake 
herself  twict.  That  was  when  I  was  but  fresh 
widowed  and  my  prospects  gone,  and  I  well  re- 
member how  it  turned  me  about.  It  was  twenty 
years  —  " 

"  Yes,  but  now  —  and  the  meat,  that  is  the  ques- 
tion. Cook  us  some  eggs,  and  we'll  track  the  steak 
later." 

"  Mr.  Evan,  sir,  I  can't  deal  with  eggs  until  I'm 
cleared  of  that  steak."  Then,  lowering  her  voice, 
"  I  do  think  that  terrier,  Pat,  is  the  likeliest  to  have 
ate  it,  though  Delia  says  it  was  those  hinnercent 
'ounds."  Mrs.  Corkle  spoke  with  unusual  correct- 
ness for  one  of  her  class,  only  lapsing  when  under 
great  excitement. 

"Mrs.  Evan,  ma'am,  in  my  'umble  opinion, 
Pat  is  the  only  one  of  the  dogs  tricky  enough  to 
make  way  with  meat  and  dish  besides, "  she  added, 
as  a  convincing  argument. 

"The  dish!"  I  cried.  "No  dog  would  take  the 
dish." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Evan,  the  dish  is  gone,  a  plate  of  one 
of  the  old  kitchen  set,  of  whom  there's  but  few  left, 
with  a  blue  picture  drawn  out  on  it" 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  117 

"  Steak  gone,  plate,  picture  ? "  queried  father,  sud- 
denly emerging  from  behind  his  paper  and  dropping 
it,  while  a  flush  struggling  with  a  half  guilty,  half 
confused  expression  crossed  his  face. 

"Well,  Barbara,  that  is,  you  see  —  the  fact  is  — 
I  took  that  steak  last  night,  and  forgot  to  replace  it. 
I've  been  visiting  that  poor  Baker  woman  who  is  so 
run  down  and  has  a  cough.  You  know  her,  Barbara ; 
she  used  to  sew  here  sometimes  —  but  born  a  lady, 
and  with  the  sensitiveness  of  one.  She  needs  meat. 
Cheap  slops  and  medicine  won't  build  her  up ;  but 
she  is  too  poor  to  buy  it,  and  it  would  offend  her  if  I 
offered  her  money  or  ordered  meat  direct  from  the 
butcher. 

"  Last  night  as  I  was  going  out  I  looked  in  the  ice- 
chest  for  some  little  knick-knack  that  I  could  carry 
her  as  a  home  product,  you  know  —  quite  a  different 
thing,  I  take  it,  from  food  purchased  on  purpose. 
The  steak  was  exactly  the  thing  she  needed, — 
would  last  her  three  days ;  and  that  old  blue  plate  she 
was  sure  to  recognize  as  ours,  so  I  took  them  to- 
gether, and  forgot  to  mention  it  or  buy  another  steak. 
You  see,  my  dear,  you  understand  ? " 

Of  course  /  did,  of  course  Martha  Corkle  did  not ; 
but  appreciating  a  man's  property  rights  in  his  own 
ice-chest  and  contents,  she  retreated,  technically  if 


n8  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

not  entirely  satisfied,  and  sent  us  in  irreproachable 
poached  eggs,  and  the  dish  of  toasted  bacon  that  to- 
gether with  kidneys  always  makes  us  forget  her 
shortcomings  in  coffee,  and  the  awful  duck-on-a-rock 
bread  she  perpetrates.  This  bread  is  of  the  consis- 
tency of  clay,  and  is  called  a  "  cottage  loaf."  You 
can't  slice  it ;  the  native  whittles  it  up  with  his  knife 
as  one  does  a  pencil.  At  present  we  live  on  toast, 
the  basis  supplied  by  an  itinerant  baker.  Later,  I 
shall  doubtless  get  up  my  courage  to  ask  her  to  take 
lessons  of  Mrs.  Mullins,  an  old  ex-cook. 

The  commuter's  wife  should  have  a  hen  rampant 
as  her  coat  of  arms,  and  adopt  it  as  her  patron  saint. 
I  swear  daily  gratitude  to  this  commonplace  and  song- 
less  bird,  —  for,  given  eggs,  my  household  need  not 
go  breakfastless  either  to  town  or  to  hospital.  Both 
father  and  Evan  are  not  only  satisfied  but  eager 
,for  eggs  at  breakfast  and  other  odd  times.  They 
may  be  cooked  in  any  of  a  dozen  ways,  or  at  a  pinch 
not  cooked  at  all,  but  shaken  up  in  a  deft  way  with  a 
few  other  ingredients.  If  a  man  regards  eggs  seri- 
ously, there  is  no  need  for  him  to  run  to  the  train 
breakfastless,  leaving  wife  or  maids  in  a  state  of  ex- 
haustion, one  having  stayed  awake  half  the  night  to 
wake  the  other.  A  late  unsavory  breakfast  is  never 
pardonable,  for  fruit  needs  no  cooking,  and  good  cof« 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  119 

fee,  a  cereal,  hot  toast,  and  eggs  "  a  1'infinity "  can 
be  as  well  gathered  together  in  half  an  hour  as  in 
half  a  day.  You  see,  a  country  doctor's  daughter  has  a 
good  chance  to  learn  the  ways  of  ministering  to  the 
physical  needs  of  a  man  who  must  always  be  well  fed, 
though  often  not  lengthily. 

The  bacon  and  eggs  had  scarcely  disappeared  and 
father  had  begged  a  third  cup  of  coffee  in  honour  of 
my  birthday,  when  there  was  a  vigorous  scratching 
at  the  back  door.  I  had  been  wondering  all  the 
time  what  had  become  of  the  dogs,  who  usually  were 
the  first  to  take  their  places  either  under  the  table 
or  beside  the  chairs  of  their  favourites. 

I  could  hear  Tim  outside,  admonishing  them  and 
evidently  trying  to  chide  them  into  order,  which  was 
instantly  departed  from  the  moment  the  door  opened. 
They  entered  like  rockets  with  a  flash  of  colour. 
Lark,  Pat,  and  the  hounds  ran  to  me  with  every 
symptom  of  joy,  Bluff  alone  crawling  under  the 
table  with  an  evident  desire  to  hide.  Each  dog  had 
a  red  ribbon  tied  around  his  neck,  from  which  hung 
a  large  pasteboard  heart,  bearing  a  birthday  greet- 
ing and  a  quotation,  something  of  the  penny  valen- 
tine order,  appropriate  to,  if  somewhat  derisive  of, 
gardening. 

One  by  one,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  dogs,  I 


120  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

gathered  in  the  trophies.  Stringing  them  on  my 
arm  as  I  used  to  the  hoops  of  wonderful  paper 
flowers  that  were  used  as  favours  at  the  dancing 
class  cotillons  that  vexed  my  youthful  spirits.  I 
called  Bluff  to  yield  his  ribbon,  but  he  would  not 
come  out. 

Father  commanded  him  in  an  unmistakable  voice, 
and  then  he  crawled  grovelling  to  his  feet,  as  if  in 
abject  terror,  the  cardboard  heart  chewed  to  pulp,  in 
his  effort  to  get  rid  of  it. 

"  I  believe  he  thinks  the  dangling  thing  some  sort 
of  a  punishment  for  an  unknown  crime,"  said 
father.  "Once  when  he  was  a  year  or  two  old,  I 
tied  a  quail  about  his  neck  to  punish  him  for  eating 
some  game  he  should  have  retrieved,  and  I  believe 
the  old  fellow  remembers  it.  Untie  the  ribbon,  Bar- 
bara, and  see  what  he  will  do." 

The  moment  the  bow  was  loosened,  I  tossed  the 
whole  necklet  across  the  room,  out  of  sight.  Bluff 
sat  up  still  trembling  and  looked  about,  then  with 
two  joyful  barks,  gave  me  his  usual  caress,  the 
veriest  scrap  of  a  lick  on  the  nose,  and  with  self- 
respect  restored,  began  to  coax  for  toast. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  shining  bright  and 
strong  above  the  maples,  and  the  air  blowing 
through  the  door  that  the  dogs  had  burst  open  was 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  121 

full  of  unexpected  softness.  Father  and  Evan  dis- 
appeared each  to  his  lair,  to  return  simultaneously 
armed  with  pipe  and  tobacco  pouch,  which  prom- 
ised me  two  outdoor  companions.  For  these  beloved 
men  instinctively  avoid  saturating  the  indoor  air  with 
pipe  smoke,  knowing  without  a  word  from  me  that 
a  woman  of  sensitive  organization  has  the  nose  of 
a  hunting-dog. 

Then  we  three  strolled  down  toward  the  long 
walk  to  take  the  first  step  toward  capturing  the 
Garden  of  Dreams,  that  I  might  live  my  life  in  it. 
A  song  sparrow  sang  merrily,  a  bluebird  purled 
away  from  the  Mother  Tree,  the  soft  bright  air 
bore  the  fragrance  of  Russian  violets,  and  a  bit  of 
the  tangle  was  gay  with  the  hardy  pompon  chrys- 
anthemums, tawny,  red,  yellow,  pink,  and  white. 
My  heart  beat  joyously,  for  love  held  me  by  either 
hand,  and  before  me  there  was  work  to  be  done,  and 
work  is  life.  Still  it  is  the  first  day  of  November! 
Fie  upon  you,  melancholy  autumn  poets! 


VIII 
SETTING  THE  SUNDIAL 

November  i  (continued}.  Last  night  I  told  Evan 
my  plan  of  turning  the  old  strawberry  bed  into  a  bit 
of  formal  garden,  and  he  agreed  that  it  would  be  a 
natural  resting  place  for  the  eye  in  its  journey  from 
the  seat  under  the  apple  tree  down  the  walk  and 
across  the  fields. 

He  emended  the  somewhat  crooked  design  that  I 
had  traced  on  a  slate  found  in  the  attic  desk,  and  made 
me  a  fascinating  water-colour  sketch  in  which  the 
strawberry  bed  appeared  as  a  small  level  lawn  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  the  sundial  acting  as  the  hub 
to  a  large,  wheel-shaped  flower  bed,  or  rather,  group 
of  beds,  as  the  wide  spokes,  each  of  a  different  but 
harmonizing  colour,  were  separated  by  narrow  grass 
walks.  A  similar  walk  circled  the  spokes  and  was 
bounded  in  turn  by  a  circular  bed  that  might  be 
called  the  tire  of  the  wheel,  and  divided  the  grass  walk 
into  four  in  order  that  one  might  get  to  the  centre 


GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     123 

without  walking  through  the  outer  bed.  Four  grace- 
ful wing-shaped  beds  filled  the  corners  of  the  grass 
plot,  which  by  actual  measurement  proved  to  be 
forty  feet  square.  This  plateau  was  on  three  sides 
enough  higher  than  the  surrounding  ground  to  allow 
an  arbitrary  grass  slope  of  two  feet,  with  a  couple  of 
steps  where  the  long  walk  joined  it. 

Without  suggesting  what  plants  should  be  used,  — 
that  is  to  be  settled  on  some  dreary  day  in  midwinter 
when  the  first  seed  catalogue  appears,  bringing  its 
tantalizing  mirage  of  possibilities,  —  Evan  washed 
in  a  colour  scheme  that  he  knew  would  satisfy  my 
rather  savage  taste,  and  make  this  formal  bit  a 
blaze  of  light  without  the  aid  of  a  single  "foliage 
plant."  For  it  is  really  astonishing  how  few  colours 
are  inharmonious  when  they  are  profusely  massed 
and  have  green  for  a  background. 

One  thing  we  decided  about  my  Garden  of  the 
Sun,  as  Evan  calls  this  formal  bit,  because  it  stands 
out  in  the  open  entirely  without  shelter.  It  is  to 
contain  only  the  perishable  summer  flowers,  really 
flowers  of  the  sun,  and  fit  companions  of  the  sun- 
dial. Gorgeous  blossoms  that  come  into  being  in 
June  after  the  hardy  roses  have  vanished,  and  glow 
and  blaze  until  they  fairly  bloom  themselves  to  death, 
before  the  frost  touches  them. 


124  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

Of  these  flowers  some  are  annuals,  and  others 
tender  perennials  or  so-called  florists'  flowers  that 
it  is  always  a  mistake  to  mix  with  bulbs  or  hardy 
perennials,  for  in  the  early  season  they  are  over- 
powered, and  in  their  turn  choke  the  hardier  plants, 
exhausting  the  goodness  from  the  soil  by  their  rank 
growth. 

As  for  the  spring  bulbs,  I  do  not  like  them  in 
set  beds,  each  of  a  kind,  and  arranged  in  stripes  or 
figures,  any  more  than  I  do  the  formal  beds  of  foli- 
age plants.  Grown  in  this  way,  as  soon  as  the  bulbs 
are  out  of  bloom  they  must  be  replaced,  or  the  space 
will  look  ragged  and  unsightly.  This  does  away 
with  the  natural  seasons  of  the  garden.  I  think  that 
one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  nature  to  women  is 
that  she  is,  like  ourselves,  a  creature  of  moods,  phases, 
seasons,  and  not  always  equally  radiant. 

Her  wild  garden  has  its  spring,  summer,  autumn, 
and  winter  seasons,  one  waxing  as  another  wanes. 
I  think  the  cultivated  garden  should  follow  the 
wild  plan,  and  while  it  must  yield  flowers  in  some 
part  during  the  whole  growing  season,  it  ought  not 
to  be  coerced  and  stuffed  like  pate  geese  and  every 
bed  expected  to  be  in  full  bloom  at  all  times. 

Besides,  this  constant  pulling  up  and  replanting 
entails  labour  not  within  the  power  of  the  com- 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  125 

muter's  wife,  who,  if  she  is  wise,  plans  as  far  as 
possible  for  the  permanent,  so  if  she  is  obliged  to 
neglect  her  flowers  for  a  time,  garden  baldness  will 
not  result. 

Evan  says  that  if  gardening  is  to  be  my  relaxa- 
tion and  a  pleasure,  I  must  pursue  it,  but  be  very 
careful  that  it  does  not  get  the  upper  hand  and  pur- 
sue me,  for  he  has  seen  this  turning  of  tables  not 
only  cause  the  downfall  of  many  gardens,  but  of 
country  homes  as  well. 


If,  a  few  days  ago,  Cris  had  put  the  sand  where  he 
was  directed,  I  should  have  planted  my  bulbs  in  the 
wrong  place.  During  the  delay  Evan  discovered 
that  the  grassy  stretch  outside  the  study  and  win- 
dows of  our  den,  where  father  tramps  to  and  fro  and 
smokes  when  he  is  thinking,  looked  bare,  and  some- 
thing was  needed  to  shield  the  foundation  of  the 
house. 

This  is  a  dry  and  sheltered  nook,  and  an  ideal 
location  for  bulbs,  if  they  are  planted  well  forward 
of  the  path  and  drip-line  of  the  eaves.  Evan  has 
marked  out  two  curving  beds  that  follow  the  line  of 
the  path  that  goes  to  the  rear  door,  and  I  am  mass- 
ing all  my  bulbs  in  them,  —  daffodils,  narcissus,  hya- 


126  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

cinths,  tall  late  tulips,  the  golden  banded  auratum, 
pure  white  madonna  (candidum),  and  pink  and  crim- 
son spotted  Japan  lilies.  I  shall  plant  them  in  groups, 
not  rows,  according  to  height  rather  than  colour,  so 
that  by  scattering  some  portulacca  seed  in  June,  the 
ground  will  be  covered  beneath  the  tall  stalks  of 
the  later  flowers,  and  we  shall  have  colour  under 
the  windows  from  April  until  October.  There  are 
no  plants  more  healthy,  sturdily  brilliant  in  bloom, 
and  unlikely  to  disappoint  than  the  bulb  tribe. 

These  are  the  only  two  flower  beds  to  be  allowed 
out  of  strict  garden  limits,  as  we  have  decided  that 
all  the  other  decorations  grouped  about  the  house 
must  be  tufts  of  eulalia,  various  shrubs,  and  groups  of 
scillas,  daffodils,  peonies,  and  iris  set  in  the  grass. 
The  older  shrubs  we  have  in  plenty,  great  masses  of 
lilacs,  syringas,  and  snowballs  filling  every  corner 
and  overarching  the  walk. 

Our  ancestors  were  aided  by  their  usual  common 
sense  regarding  economy  of  labour,  when  they  gath- 
ered their  little  home  gardens  in  a  corner,  often  fenc- 
ing them  in  from  the  rest  of  the  land.  Here  the 
flowers  could  be  considered  as  a  whole,  be  loved, 
tended,  watered,  and  protected  from  insect  enemies 
without  waste  of  energy. 

Upon  this  same  principle  I  must  collect  my  flower 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  127 

family  under  one  roof,  so  to  speak,  keeping  them  in 
such  order  that  I  may  not  only  enjoy  them  freely, 
but  minister  easily  to  their  needs  quite  out  of  the 
range  of  highway  criticism.  Not  that  I  object  to 
being  seen  weeding,  watering,  tying,  and  insectiding 
in  a  perspiring  and  collarless  condition,  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  pounced  upon  by  every  patient  that  calls 
and  be  expected  to  take  them  into  my  sanctuary, 
there  to  prowl  and  despoil  me  of  garden  privacy  or 
flowers  after  the  custom  of  the  idly  curious.  It  is 
something  of  a  responsibility  of  course  to  be  one's 
own  gardener,  but  an  infinite  satisfaction  withal  to 
feel  that  the  making  and  even  the  marring  is  within 
one's  own  grasp.  That  is,  as  far  as  things  agricultu- 
ral are  ever  within  the  power  of  a  mere  human.  For 
as  a  humbling  and  God-fearing  occupation,  none  can 
exceed  the  gardener's.  Mother  Earth  has  ways  of 
trying  and  proving  the  temper  or  lack  of  it  that  can- 
not be  surpassed  for  variety. 

As  I  look  back  over  the  years  that  I  have  watched 
garden  processes,  and  sown  and  gathered  my  little 
crop  of  flowers,  it  seems  that  I  should  now  know 
enough  to  keep  clear  of  cultural  sins  both  of  omis- 
sion and  commission.  Yet  when  I  realize  all  the 
things  that  are  uncontrollable,  I  turn  pagan  and  am 
inclined  to  make  a  series  of  shrubby  grottos  to  har- 


128  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

hour  the  deities  of  Sun,  Rain,  and  Seasonable 
Weather,  so  that  I  may  secretly  propitiate  them  with 
offerings.  It  was  a  woman  gardener  who  said  feel- 
ingly, "  Paul  may  plant,  but  if  Apollos  declines  to 
water,  what  can  one  do  about  it?" 

In  these  days,  however,  all  well-conducted  dwell- 
ers in  the  country  have  artesian  wells  and  wind- 
mills, and  are  thereby  able,  up  to  a  certain  point,  by 
means  of  a  diamond  spray  sprinkler,  to  sneeze  in 
the  face  of  so  important  a  person  as  even  Apollos 
himself. 

Of  course  we  have  one  of  these  wells,  both  for 
outdoor  convenience  and  because  father  has  been 
trying  for  many  years  to  convince  the  community 
that  neighbourliness  does  not  require  them  to  drink 
each  other's  drainage.  This  they  do  inevitably  on 
the  village  and  river  side  of  the  hills,  where  wells 
and  cesspools  alternate  with  great  regularity.  Surely 
the  country  life  is  the  healthiest  in  the  world,  other- 
wise the  rank  and  file  of  people  who  live  it  would 
never  survive  the  liberties  they  take  with  them- 
selves ! 


This    morning  when    father,    Evan,   and    I,   fol- 
lowed  by   Tim  and  Bertie,  arrived  at  the  garden  a 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  129 

further  surprise  was  ambushed  behind  the  rose 
arbour,  in  the  shape  of  two  men  from  the  florist  over 
in  town  of  whom  father  had  bought  my  birthday 
flowers. 

"  You  see,  Barbara,"  said  Evan,  shaking  hands 
with  himself  behind  his  back,  a  manner  he  has  of 
expressing  satisfaction,  "  people  always  call  in  extra 
help  at  a  '  house-raisin','  so  I  thought  that  I  would 
do  the  same  at  this  '  garden  digging ' ;  for  if  your 
beds  are  shaped  now,  you  can  in  your  mind's  eye 
plant  and  replant,  until  when  spring  comes  every- 
thing will  be  decided  to  your  satisfaction." 

I  laughed  aloud  and  clapped  my  hands  at  this  new 
outbreak  of  one  of  Evan's  strong  traits ;  for  the  dear 
fellow  had  only  a  few  moments  before  warned  me 
that  I  could  expect  to  do  very  little  until  spring,  at 
the  very  time  that  he  was  providing  men  with  stakes, 
measures,  and  lines  to  lay  out  the  garden  without 
delay. 

Making  a  noise  when  I  am  pleased  is  another  of 
my  savage  traits.  Animals  do  it;  the  dogs  bay  with 
pleasure  when  invited  for  an  unexpected  walk. 
When  good  luck  came  to  Toomai  of  the  Elephants, 
he  sat  out  in  the  night  and  thumped  a  tom-tom  in 
pure  joy.  Civilization  is  mostly  silent  in  happiness, 
feeling  doubtless  that  at  least  feigned  indifference 


130  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

is  expected  of  it.  I  often  wonder  whether  we  gain 
or  lose  by  being  civilized.  It  is  so  much  less  com- 
plicated to  be  a  savage. 


The  next  consideration  was  the  location  of  the 
sundial,  for  a  hole  must  be  dug  and  a  rough  founda- 
tion of  stones,  rubble,  and  cement  laid  before  it  could 
be  set. 

Fortunately  the  strawberry  bed  had  been  care- 
fully levelled  in  its  youth ;  the  ashes  used  as  a  top 
dressing,  drawing  white  clover  to  fill  the  place  of  the 
departed  berries,  promised  very  respectable  turf, 
that  by  a  careful  weeding  out  in  spring  and  raking 
in  of  fresh  seed  would  serve  quite  well.  After  Evan 
had  driven  the  central  stake  Bertie  set  to  work  with 
his  shovel,  advised  and  admonished  by  Tim,  whose 
dialect  Scotch  must  have  seemed  a  weird  language 
to  his  Danish  ears. 

Meanwhile  Evan  and  I  strolled  up  and  down  the 
long  walk  rather  perplexed  how  to  proceed,  while 
father  surrounded  by  dogs  watched  us  from  his 
seat  under  the  tree,  and  the  two  extras  stood  at 
"  rest  arms." 

The  borders,  about  six  feet  in  width,  were  a  hope- 
less jungle  of  hardy  plants  interspersed  at  intervals 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  131 

with  shrubs  and  tall  bushes  of  the  older  roses  such 
as  Magna  Charta  and  Jacqueminot.  Some  of  these 
met  over  the  path  and  partly  barred  the  way.  At 
this  season  of  course  the  hardy  plants  could  be  dis- 
tinguished only  by  their  leaves,  and  being  herba- 
ceous, any  night  a  hard  frost  might  destroy  even 
this  clue. 

There  was  a  broad  band  of  hollyhocks  too  well 
placed  against  the  honeysuckle  bank  to  be  dis- 
turbed, straggling  helter-skelter  were  foxgloves, 
Canterbury  bells,  larkspurs,  phloxes,  sweet  William, 
columbines,  white  anemone  Japonica  still  in  bloom 
in  company  with  monkshood,  hardy  coreopsis,  even- 
ing primroses,  honesty,  and  sunflowers,  while  the 
autumnal  growth  of  white,  yellow,  and  red  day 
and  tiger  lilies  and  scarlet  oriental  poppies  was 
distinguishable. 

After  several  turns  up  and  down  in  a  brown 
study,  Evan  threw  back  his  head  and  cried :  "  I 
have  it !  I  will  have  the  men  grub  up  all  these 
plants  with  the  exception  of  the  roses  and  shrubs 
and  put  them  on  the  walk,  work  over  the  beds 
thoroughly,  and  dig  in  good  old  manure  from  that 
heap  in  the  field.  Then  the  plants  can  be  reset 
neither  in  a  jungle  nor  in  stiff  lines,  but  in  groups 
of  a  kind  between  the  shrubs,  which  really,  when 


132  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

properly  trimmed,  will  make  a  series  of  alcoves  to 
break  the  awkwardness  of  straight  lines.  Some 
shrubs  are  too  old  and  must  come  out  or  be  re- 
placed, and  others,  like  the  great  syringas,  lilacs, 
and  snowballs,  can  be  allowed  to  meet  over  the 
walk  and  may  be  cut  out  to  form  natural  arches. 
This  I  will  manage  myself.  What  do  you  think  of 
my  scheme,  Madam  Commuter  ?  Doesn't  it  keep 
the  old  and  yet  put  it  in  a  tangible,  workable  shape 
without  breaking  any  of  the  canons  and  laws  of 
my  craft  ? " 

I  said  that  it  was  charming  and  suited  me  exactly, 
but  did  not  add  that  it  was  precisely  what  I  myself 
had  planned  yesterday  in  the  attic  and  sketched  on 
the  reverse  side  of  the  old  slate.  It  is  a  great  mis- 
take to  collapse  the  lovable  little  self-conceits  of 
men,  for  they  are  of  a  wholly  different  quality  from 
egotism.  Besides,  to  have  told  Evan  that  his  plan 
was  "piper's  news"  or  that  "great  minds  think 
alike"  would  have  deprived  him  of  the  pleasure  of 
pleasing  me.  Poor  Aunt  Lot  had  this  fatal  quality 
of  forestalling  surprises  and  caused  me  to  lode  up 
the  characteristic  for  future  avoidance  in  my  brain 
cabinet. 

Then  Evan  called  the  men,  and  the  digging  and 
sorting  began.  It  will  take  them  at  least  a  whole 


OREAT  SYHINCA  BUSHES   MEET   OVBR  THE   WALK 


<ARDEN 


a*?*1  '  make  a 

of   straight    ], 

id  and    «  out   or   be   re- 

like  the  ;ngas,  lilacs, 


elf.     What 
Commut 

a  tangible,  work 

-s   and    laws  of 


tefctd  on 


egoti.s 


If 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  133 

week  to  restore  these  hardy  beds  to  order,  but 
luckily  the  "  extras  "  are  a  birthday  gift  and  do  not 
have  to  be  recorded  and  extracted,  or  I  should  say 
subtracted,  from  godmother's  fifty  pounds.  Though 
really  I  suppose  I  should  credit  the  garden  account 
with  them,  all  the  same,  if  we  are  to  keep  track  of 
what  it  costs.  But  why  keep  a  garden  account  and 
reckon  the  cost  of  pure  joy?  Is  it  not  cheap  at 
any  price  ? 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  I  do  not  keep  the  real- 
izing sense  of  cost  before  me,  I  may  be  tempted 
some  day  to  write  a  delusive  book  upon  how  to 
run  a  country  home,  horse  and  cow  inclusive,  on 
ten  dollars  a  week,  supply  a  family  of  ten  with 
vegetables  grown  in  a  city  plot,  or  give  minute  in- 
structions as  to  the  way  a  cripple  may  support  him- 
self by  raising  roses  for  market  from  cuttings 
obtained  from  withered  bouquets,  in  a  greenhouse 
glazed  with  castaway  photograph  plates  and  heated 
by  a  kerosene  lamp! 

I  may  not  be  wholly  sane  in  my  regard  for 
money.  In  childhood  a  dollar  did  not  mean  a 
hundred  cents,  but  twenty  packets  of  flower-seeds; 
ten  cents,  a  clump  of  pansies,  a  verbena,  or  a  small 
geranium ;  while  twenty-five  cents  stood  for  a  helio- 
trope, a  Fuchsia,  or  a  tea-rose  in  forced  and  conse- 


134  THE  GARDEN    OF  A 

quently  hectic  bloom.  Even  now  money  never 
seems  an  actuality  unless  reckoned  by  its  products, 
merely  being  according  to  its  volume,  —  so  much 
food,  so  many  plants,  dogs,  books,  or  a  coveted  bit 
of  land  or  a  horse,  consequently  a  commodity  not 
to  be  hoarded  but  to  be  immediately  sent  out  to 
fulfil  its  destiny.  For  as  long  as  you  keep  money 
it  yields  nothing  but  worry,  the  current  rate  of 
interest  being  simply  beneath  contempt.  On  the 
other  hand,  you  buy  dogs  and  you  buy  food ;  one 
eats  the  other,  there  is  no  waste,  while  satisfac- 
tion and  good  company  is  the  result.  Also  you 
buy  seeds  and  manure ;  the  seeds  eat  the  manure, 
and  flowers  are  the  results.  Is  not  this  true 
economy  ? 

Evan  shakes  his  head  at  my  theories,  and  yet 
when  I  corner  him,  he  confesses  that  he  has  some- 
what the  same  feeling  and  that  the  ideal  condition 
to  him  would  be  to  work  for  pure  love  of  it,  never 
thinking  of  money,  but  simply  by  putting  the  hand 
in  the  pocket  always  finding  the  sum  necessary  to 
pay  for  the  article  purchased. 


This  morning  as  we  walked  to  and  fro,  hatless  and 
absorbing  the  wonderfully  talmy  air  that  father  said 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  135 

was  a  reprieve  granted  to  autumn  by  summer  in 
honour  of  my  birthday,  we  crossed  the  open  square 
and  followed  the  line  of  the  cart  track  down  the 
field  among  the  trees,  until  it  wound  in  and  out  like  a 
cowpath. 

"We  might,"  I  suggested,  "use  this  cart  track 
as  a  walk  through  this  short  stretch  of  smooth 
ground  and  end  it  where  the  bushes  and  trees  begin, 
continuing  the  beds  of  hardy  flowers  beside  it. 
Some  day  perhaps  we  will  have  this  old  wood  lot 
ploughed  up  and  cultivated." 

"  Cultivated  ?  No,"  said  Evan,  as  if  an  inspira- 
tion had  seized  him,  pointing  over  the  half-dozen 
acres  where  the  children  of  the  ancient  wood  in  the 
shape  of  second  growth  hemlock,  maples,  a  few 
beeches  and  red  oaks  mingled  with  dogwood,  cornel, 
bayberry,  sweet  fern,  and  hazel  bushes,  and  the 
dry  yellow  fronds  of  the  cinnamon  and  bleached 
hay-scented  ferns  grew  amid  a  maze  of  seeded 
asters  and  goldenrods  that  still  showed  here  and 
there  a  fresh  spray  of  yellow.  "  No,  this  shall  be 
your  wild  garden.  A  strip  of  a  made  path  here 
until  it  curves  under  those  hemlocks,  then  merely 
a  grass  trail  of  a  lawn  mower's  width  running  where 
you  will,  and  to  be  varied  according  to  mood,  until 
it  reaches  the  bars  where  we  will  have  a  bench  and 


136  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

stile.  Ferns  there  are  already  in  plenty,  and  we 
can  bring  fresh  roots  home  from  every  back-country 
trip  we  take.  The  wild  things  will  never  mope  and 
starve  in  these  surroundings;  so  we  need  not  cul- 
tivate, but  merely  adjust  ourselves  to  the  land." 

"Yes,  and  the  spring  hole  with  the  mossy  cask 
around  it,  where  the  cows  used  to  drink  down  by 
the  bars,  we  might  use  for  a  lily  pool  and  have  Japan 
iris  and  native  water  plants  in  the  surrounding 
muddy  ground.  Oh,  Evan,  you  angel,  for  a  long 
time  I've  suspected  you  of  having  nice,  strong,  prac- 
tical, magic  wings  folded  away  under  your  coat. 
.This  thought  opens  possibilities  not  even  shadowed 
in  my  Garden  of  Dreams." 

"  It  is  for  this  and  the  wherewithal  to  make  your 
dreams  come  true  that  I  am  here  instead  of  in  that 
older  garden  overseas.  No,  don't  look  distressed, 
sweetheart ;  for  after  all,  a  man's  wife  is  his  home 
and  kindred." 

Then  father  came  up,  wondering  what  we  were 
discovering  either  in  each  other  or  in  what,  to 
unilluminated  eyes,  seemed  only  a  ragged  wood  lot, 
brown  with  November's  smoke  tints. 

When  we  had  explained  that  the  Garden  of 
Dreams  was  to  begin  at  the  "  Mother  Tree "  and 
end  quite  out  of  sight  in  a  maze  of  wilderness,  his 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  137 

face  was  strangely  lighted,  and  putting  an  arm 
around  my  waist  and  Evan's  shoulder,  he  drew  us 
together,  saying,  "Children,  your  lives,  I  believe, 
will  be  a  long  walk  through  the  garden  of  your 
affections,  and  your  old  father  thanks  God  that  he 
is  allowed  to  walk  even  a  small  part  of  it  with 
you." 


The  hardy  roses  and  shrubs  that  Evan  had 
bought  also  as  a  birthday  gift  to  supplement  those 
we  already  had,  have  been  banked  up  in  the  vege- 
table garden  until  the  borders  are  rearranged.  Of 
course  we  take  a  risk  in  planting  things  so  late. 
October  is  a  better  time ;  but  if  we  Ijave  a  close 
snowy  winter,  there  is  little  danger,  and  we  shall 
put  straw  jackets  on  the  roses  until  they  are  estab- 
lished. On  the  other  hand,  if  one  waits  to  plant 
hardy  things  until  spring,  the  ground  may  be  late 
in  thawing,  and  a  whole  season's  bloom  lost. 

How  delightfully  the  damp  earth  around  the 
plant  roots  smelled  when  Evan  unpacked  them  this 
morning.  I  think  I  must  have  a  tinge  of  poor 
Peter  Schmidt's  love  of  the  soil,  irrespective  of 
what  it  produces,  in  my  nature,  for  the  various 
earth  odours  all  have  a  separate  tale  to  tell,  and 


138  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

the  leaf  mould  of  the  woods  bears  a  wholly  different 
fragrance  from  that  of  the  soil  under  pasture  turf, 
or  the  breath  that  the  garden  gives  off  in  great 
sighs  of  relief  when  it  is  relaxed  and  refreshed  by 
a  summer  shower. 

This  happy  birthday  has  held  two  sensations  not 
in  the  planning  and  planting  scheme.  When  we 
were  sorting  the  bulbs,  the  hounds  carried  off  the 
bag  of  snowdrops,  and  after  worrying  it,  ate  a  por- 
tion of  its  contents.  Without  looking  in  either 
Dodoens's  or  Gerarde's  "Herbal"  for  the  medicinal 
properties  of  snowdrops,  I  now  know  that  they 
give  puppies  severe  colic.  Fortunately  Bugle  and 
Tally-ho  did  not  eat  many,  and  Evan  secured  the 
rest  and  has  bedded  them  in  a  spot  unknown  to 
me,  so  that  some  early  spring  day  I  may  go  out 
and  be  surprised  by  finding  them. 

I  also  have  planted  a  surprise  for  Evan  in  the 
grass  bank  at  the  foot  of  the  honeysuckle  tangle, 
a  spot  where  the  sun  lies  warmest  in  March, — half 
a  dozen  tufts  of  yellow  primroses  and  cowslips  taken 
from  the  Somerset  garden  and  smuggled  home  in 
a  box  of  moss  deep  in  a  trunk  cover.  If  they  thrive, 
he  shall  have  a  bank  of  them  in  time,  for  I  saved 
plenty  of  seed. 

The   second   happening  was   more   serious.     The 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  139 

sundial  was  to  be  placed  early  in  the  afternoon  with 
some  little  bits  of  sentiment,  by  way  of  dedication. 
The  foundation  was  completed,  and  the  shaft,  a  sim- 
ple, rather  graceful  vase-shaped  column,  set  in  posi- 
tion. Martha  came  out,  and  looked  solemnly  on  at 
a  respectful  distance,  taking  no  notice  of  the  some- 
what crookedly  admiring  glances  of  Tim  ;  for  Martha 
is  not  unattractive,  having  good  hair  and  a  portly 
freshness  not  seen  among  our  farming  women  of 
fifty  or  thereabouts. 

Father  and  Evan  were  busy  with  compass  and 
level ;  but  though  the  sun  shone  brightly,  the 
shadow  cast  by  the  quaintly  wrought  brass  finger 
would  not  fall  in  the  right  place.  Alack !  the  diffi- 
culty could  not  be  adjusted ;  for  owing  to  differences 
in  latitude,  an  English-born  sundial  cannot  tell 
New  England  time. 

Father  laughed  mischievously  as  he  rallied  Evan 
upon  the  inadaptability  of  the  race  to  which  he  was 
the  exception  that  merely  went  to  prove  the  rule. 
Evan  did  not  laugh,  but  as  he  glanced  at  me,  we 
mutually  recognized  each  other's  right  of  birth,  and 
the  dial  will  stand  as  a  safeguard  to  remind  us  to 
respect  each  other's  patriotism. 

Meanwhile,  Martha  Corkle  gave  a  suspicious  sniff, 
and  remarked,  "Crossin'  seas  don't  change  the 


140    GARDEN    OF  A  COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

'eart,"  while  Tim  forgot  himself  and  indiscreetly 
clapped  her  on  the  back,  saying  apologetically, 
"Who'd  ken  the  puir  dumb  stane  'ud  be  sa  obsti- 
nate ? "  a  proceeding  she  resented  by  stalking  into 
the  house. 

However,  the  dial  is  set,  and  will  add  a  meaning 
to  the  garden  of  the  sun  that  shall  surround  it. 
Mother,  who  went  away  in  the  long  ago,  I'm  so 
happy  to-night,  that  I  am  sure  you  are  very  near. 
I  seem  to  feel  your  arms,  and  I  know  that  you  also 
understand. 


IX 

CHIEFLY   DOMESTIC 

November  8.  This  has  been  a  week  of  rush, 
wherein  shovels,  men,  shrubs,  shears,  garden  lines, 
and  mysterious  calculations  have  whirled  before  my 
eyes.  In  spite  of  our  determination  to  thin  out 
and  readjust  the  old  stock  of  shrubs  and  hardy 
plants,  only  one  of  the  long  borders  is  completed, 
the  other  being,  after  two  years  of  comparative 
neglect,  such  a  tangle  of  indistinguishable  roots 
that  we  are  leaving  it  as  an  experiment,  thinking 
that  it  may  give  us  some  new  hybrids  of  old 
flowers,  or  at  least  yield  some  startling  groupings 
and  combinations  of  colour  that  will  outvie  mere 
neatness. 

Every  day  I  grow  more  and  more  grateful  for 
the  things  that  have  been.  If  mother  had  not 
cared  for  gardening,  I  might  have  spent  restless 
years  in  groping  before  I  knew  that  I  wanted  a 
garden,  cramping  my  mind  and  body  in  a  city 
apartment,  or  else  stifling  equally  in  some  newly 
made  suburb.  Treeless  made-country  is,  I  think, 


142  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

even  more  arid  and  monotonous  than  the  city 
streets.  I  simply  shudder  at  the  awfulness  of 
new  places,  where  a  level  onion  field  perhaps,  hav- 
ing survived  its  usefulness  and  sunk  into  weedy 
slumber,  awakes  with  a  start  so  find  a  trolley  whiz- 
zing down  the  highway  to  the  market  town. 
Straightway  it  is  dissected,  and  offered  in  building 
plots  of  the  "  Why  pay  rent  ?  Build  your  home 
on  easy  terms "  order. 

One  can  readily  tell  what  these  hot  little  gardens 
will  be ;  for  even  though  the  witch's  cauldron  period 
has  passed,  there  are  other  stock  floral  ornaments 
for  small  lawns,  the  coleus  anchor  and  the  weeping 
purple  beech,  a  small  tree  that  owes  its  lachrymose 
appearance  to  having  branches  grafted  on  upside 
down,  so  that  eventually  they  grovel  in  the  dirt. 
The  strange  thing  is  that  on  a  nearby  cross-road 
an  acre  or  two  of  virgin  soil  with  a  dozen  good 
trees  may  often  be  had  at  the  same  price  as  the 
arid  lot. 

"  But,"  says  some  willing  though  gardenless 
woman,  "  my  parents  did  not  have  a  garden  for 
me  to  inherit.  Am  I  therefore  to  be  shut  out  of 
Eden?  What  am  I  to  do?" 

Do  ?  Buy  the  ground  on  the  cross-road  with 
the  trees,  and  make  a  garden  with  all  possible 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  143 

speed,  that  your  children  may  be  born  with  the 
love  of  outdoors  in  them. 

At  present  there  is  a  lull  in  our  garden  opera- 
tions, and  the  soothing  haze  of  burning  leaves 
hides  the  bare  outlines  of  the  new  beds  around 
the  sundial.  The  violet  plants  that  are  to  yield 
Evan's  buttonhole  flowers  all  winter  are  comfort- 
ably settled  in  the  frames  in  the  sunny  corner 
between  stable  and  bank.  An  ordinary  frame, 
with  three  sashes,  such  as  we  use  for  seeds  in 
spring,  will  hold  a  hundred  violet  plants,  and  these, 
if  carefully  protected  by  mats  from  freezing,  and 
well  sunned  to  encourage  bloom  and  keep  out 
mould,  will  furnish  my  commuter  with  his  daily 
flower  until  the  out-door  violets  come  in  bloom, 
besides  giving  his  wife  many  a  handful  of  fra- 
grance to  put  in  the  iridescent  glass  vase  that 
stands  on  her  desk-top  for  the  harbouring  of  lov- 
able flowers. 

We  bought  the  violet  plants  this  year,  but  next 
season  we  shall  grow  our  stock.  The  lilies-of-the- 
valley  have  spread  wonderfully  in  my  absence,  and 
must  have  a  thorough  weeding  and  be  thinned  by 
having  six-inch  trenches  cut  through  them  before 
they  are  bedded  with  manure  for  the  winter.  We 
have  always  had  glorious  lilies  because,  in  the  face 


144  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

of  gardeners  and  tradition,  mother  planted  them  in 
sunny,  rich  soil  instead  of  letting  them  starve  and 
dwindle  in  the  shade.  They  grow  south  from  the 
apple  tree  thickly  as  the  grass,  their  only  limit  being 
the  amount  of  room  we  can  give  them. 

Evan  made  a  discovery  early  this  morning  when 
the  dull  red  light  of  the  sun,  falling  between  the 
bare  interlaced  branches,  drew  traceries  on  the  win- 
dows, and  shot  long  rays  of  the  gorgeous  shifting 
hues  of  stained  glass  upon  the  floor,  for  the  mo- 
ment turning  the  plain  frames  into  a  latticed  case- 
ment. He  saw  that  such  was  the  slope  of  the  land 
that  by  cutting  an  opening  through  the  thick  maple 
branches,  the  garden  would  lie  before  us  like  a 
picture  framed  in  leaves. 

Then  a  second  idea,  born  of  the  tree  shadows,  is 
a  plan  to  replace  the  windows  of  the  square  shallow 
bay  with  latticed  casements,  and  under  them  a 
low,  broad  window  seat,  from  which  we  may  enjoy 
the  garden  from  afar. 


The  morning  after  my  birthday  the  inevitable 
conversation  with  Aunt  Lot  took  place.  Conver- 
sation ?  No,  Interview  is  the  word,  —  an  Interview 
conducted  on  the  parish  visitor  (inquisitor)  lines. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  145 

She  was  evidently  aggrieved  because  father  had 
not  confided  to  her  the  precise  date  of  our  home- 
coming. She  wished  to  have  been  present  to  wel- 
come us,  after  having  vigorously  upset  the  house 
from  garret  to  cellar  in  the  historic  name  of  house- 
cleaning;  and  this  topic  furnished  the  opening  text 
for  the  discourse. 

"  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  Barbara,  that  the  fall 
cleaning  was  not  done  before  you  came,  and  with 
your  father  here  alone  for  almost  two  months,  every- 
thing must  be  in  a  shocking  condition.  When  do 
you  begin?  I  suppose  you  intend  to  have  it  over 
before  Thanksgiving  ? " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  begin,  Aunt  Lot." 

"Are  you  putting  it  off  until  spring?  I  think 
that's  a  risk." 

"  No,  forever.  Every  room  has  its  day  for  weekly 
cleaning,  and  there  will  be  no  need  for  an  up- 
set, as  if  we  were  fumigating  after  a  contagious 
disease." 

"  Humph !  and  be  sweeping  and  dusting  all  the 
time  !  You'll  never  manage  it  in  the  world,  but  I 
suppose  that  is  one  of  your  new  English  ideas." 

"  No,  simply  common  sense,  like  taking  a  bath 
every  morning,  though  I  believe  that  there  may  still 
be  people  who  prefer  to  save  up  and  take  a  semi- 

L 


146  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

annual  soak  in  pearline,  the  execution  of  which 
makes  them  weak  for  several  days  afterward." 

At  this  she  shifted  the  subject. 

"  I  must  say,  Barbara,  that  I  was  surprised  to 
hear  that  you  were  coming  home  to  live.  You 
know  I've  always  held  the  opinion  that  there  was 
no  house  large  enough  for  two  families.  My 
brother,  though  easy-going  in  general,  is  most 
set  in  some  things,  and  from  what  I  have  seen  of 
your  husband,  I  should  say  that  he  was  not  only 
set,  but  high  spirited." 

She  had  endeavoured  to  cross  swords  with  Evan 
at  the  time  of  our  marriage  and  had  never  forgiven 
him  for  declining  to  argue. 

"  Two  families  in  one  house  ?  Surely,  Aunt  Lot, 
you  do  not  practise  what  you  preach ;  for  you  have 
gone  into  a  house  with  another  family,  and  a  large 
one  at  that.  This,  however,  is  really  one  household, 
—  a  big  house,  the  dearest  father  in  the  world,  with 
a  son  and  daughter  to  keep  him  young." 

"  Then,  too,"  she  continued,  as  if  she  had  not 
heard,  "  you  are  beginning  most  extravagantly,  — 
three  women  in  the  house  and  two  men  outside.  In 
the  old  times  I  only  had  one  woman,  until  your 
father  got  the  notion  of  having  the  office  door  waited 
upon,  and  making  patients  send  in  their  names 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  147 

and  come  in  turn,  instead  of  leaving  the  door  on 
the  latch  for  people  to  walk  in  sociably  when 
they  pleased.  No  doubt,  as  he  said,  people  did 
sometimes  go  and  wait  round  just  out  of  curiosity 
to  see  who  was  there,  and  somehow  Miss  Bache 
found  that  Mrs.  Dennison  had  liver  trouble  that 
spotted  her  complexion,  and  mentioned  it  in  sew- 
ing society,  and  her  own  husband's  sister,  not 
knowing  she  was  ailing,  felt  grieved  to  hear  it 
from  a  stranger. 

"  But  I  suppose  you  still  expect  to  run  wild  as 
you  did  when  a  girl,  never  going  in  the  kitchen 
except  when  you  wanted  something,  and  spending 
all  your  time  either  grubbing  in  the  dirt  or  reading 
books  that  were  not  at  all  the  thing  for  young 
women, — I  never  wasted  my  time  in  such  idling, — 
or  else  listening  to  some  impostor's  tale  over  at 
the  hospital,  or  crying  over  the  funerals  of  ragged 
children  that  were  much  better  dead.  I  hold  three 
women  sheer  extravagance,  and  it's  a  woman's  duty 
to  surprise  the  kitchen  at  odd  hours;  otherwise 
how  find  things  amiss  ?  " 

"Not  extravagance,  Aunt  Lot,  —  cooperation,  the 
only  way  in  which  twice  two  make  five,  and  some- 
times even  six  or  seven;  and  as  to  finding  things 
amiss,  father  always  said  we  find  what  we  look 


148  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

for;  consequently,  as  I  don't  wish  to  find  things 
amiss,  I  shall  never  look  for  trouble.  If  we  had 
taken  a  little  place  of  our  own  with  a  horse,  cow, 
and  garden,  we  should  have  had  to  keep  a  maid 
and  a  man,  should  we  not  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"And  father  must  still  have  kept  two  maids  and 
a  man  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Then  where  is  the  extravagance  of  three  women 
and  two  men  when  we  live  together?" 

"That's  not  the  way  to  look  at  it.  When  two 
families  live  in  one  house,  it  is  that  they  may  get 
on  with  less,  else  why  do  it  ? "  she  added  trium- 
phantly. 

Poor  Aunt  Lot !  she  has  always  made  of  life  a 
sort  of  combination  bargain  sale,  a  debit  and  credit 
account,  with  material  loss  and  gain  her  only  stand- 
ard, at  least  until  she  married  the  Methodist  min- 
ister; and  then  I  verily  believe  the  gain  that  tempted 
her  was  holding  domestic  authority  over  the  mother- 
less eight. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  I  said,  swallowing  my 
wrath ;  "  that  is  the  sort  of  family  combination  that 
fails  and  brings  discredit  upon  the  word.  Coopera- 
tion is  the  having  more  of  everything"  (I  was  going 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  149 

to  say  "  love,"  but  I  cannot  speak  that  word  before 
Aunt  Lot),  —  "  home  life,  leisure,  books,  and  all  the 
material  things  to  boot."  I  was  hastening  to  explain 
also  that  Martha  Corkle  was  an  accident,  a  sort  of 
after-thought  in  our  plans,  but  before  I  could  speak, 
Aunt  Lot  was  again  on  the  trail. 

"The  most  objectionable  feature  about  the  house 
is  that  woman  you've  imported.  She  is  a  most  offen- 
sive person.  Last  night  when  I  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  chat  with  Delia  and  Eliza  and  ask  them  how  they 
were  satisfied  with  the  change  of  things,  —  by  the 
way,  I  think  Eliza  is  greatly  wounded  and  depressed 
at  being  set  down  from  the  cook's  place  after  having 
done  the  marketing  when  your  father  was  alone,  to 
doing  laundry  and  mere  shift  work  and  having  no 
say  so,  and  then,  too,  Delia  appears  as  if  she'd  been 
crying,  and  wouldn't  talk  about  her  wedding,  which  I 
don't  think  looks  well, — that  woman,  Martha  Cock- 
spur,  stood  all  the  time  I  was  there  and  glowered  at 
me  as  if  I  had  intruded  and  had  no  right  to  go  to  the 
kitchen  and  speak  to  the  help." 

"  Martha  Corkle  comes  from  a  class  of  society 
where  the  servants  stand  when  the  mistress  visits  the 
kitchen,  which  she  never  does  to  discuss  the  members 
of  her  family,"  I  said  emphatically.  "  She  was  quite 
right ;  you  forgot  yourself,  and  you  were  intruding. 


ISO  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

And  now,  if  you  please,  we  will  talk  of  something 
else." 

"  I  meant  no  offence,  Barbara,  I'm  sure.  I  only 
thought  it  fair  to  warn  you,"  she  persisted.  "You 
are  young  and  impulsive  and  have  no  experience. 
You  never  had  any  responsibility  before  in  your  life, 
and  now  what  you'll  do  for  jellies,  preserves,  and 
canned  things  this  winter  I  can't  imagine.  There  is 
a  very  worthy  woman  in  our  town  who  puts  up  such 
things  for  sale.  I  might  order  some  for  you  if  you 
like.  I  suppose  you'll  be  putting  in  a  great  many 
improvements,  —  a  hardwood  floor  in  the  best  parlour, 
perhaps,  to  set  off  those  new  rugs  and  heavy  plush 
curtains.  You  must  have  had  a  good  many  wedding 
presents  I've  never  seen." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  do  not  need  preserves  and  such 
things.  We  all  prefer  fresh  fruit  and  vegetables; 
out  of  the  growing  season  something  can  always  be 
bought  at  the  market  in  town.  I  do  not  see  why  I 
should  make  any  change  except  little  by  little  to 
renew  worn-out  things ;  for  father,  as  you  see,  has 
had  a  lovely  rosy  paper  put  in  this  room  and  given 
me  all  the  dear  old  mahogany  that  was  mother's. 
New  brass  beds  ?  No  ;  I  detest  them.  I  like  the 
feeling  of  being  surrounded  and  having  my  toes 
tucked  in  instead  of  poking  them  between  the  bars 
as  a  canary  does  his  beak. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  151 

"As  to  hardwood  floors,  father  has  them  under 
ban,  for  in  a  year  he  has  traced  two  compound  leg 
fractures,  a  broken  arm,  collar  bone,  and  an  obsti- 
nate case  of  water  on  the  knee,  to  polished  floors. 
Besides,  very  soon  there  won't  be  any  best  parlour. 
It's  to  be  our  den,  with  plants  and  only  the  lightest 
of  frilly  muslins  at  the  windows  and  fresh  matting 
under  the  rugs.  In  fact,  I'm  going  to  banish  all 
carpets  as  soon  as  possible  and  have  thickly  lined 
matting  and  rugs  everywhere." 

"  It's  plain  that  you  are  set  in  your  ways  already, 
and  don't  wish  my  advice  or  value  it,"  said  Aunt 
Lot  finally,  rising  bonnet  in  hand  as  if  to  go,  quite 
in  a  huff,  "  but  one  thing  more  I  must  free  my  mind 
of.  You'll  find  your  husband  will  get  many  a  hard 
cold  coming  up  in  those  hot  cars  on  stormy  winter 
nights,  besides  losing  business  by  never  meeting 
people  in  the  evening." 

"Evan  belongs  to  a  club  where  he  has  a  room 
that  he  can  use  when  weather  or  necessity  requires," 
I  answered,  boiling  so  internally  that  I  am  afraid 
my  voice  shook. 

"Humph!  I  shouldn't  have  expected  that  he 
would  have  laid  plans  to  deliberately  stay  away 
from  you  so  soon." 

"Stop,  Aunt   Lot!     The   plan  was   father's,  and 


152  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

Evan  only  consented  to  it  because  I  urged  it.  No 
woman  should  try  to  live  the  country  life  if  she  is 
hysterical  and  makes  her  husband  a  train-slave. 
Now,  if  you  please,  this  talk  must  stop,  and  never 
be  renewed.  I  hear  Tim  bringing  round  the  horse." 

As  I  went  to  help  her  with  her  bag  and  the 
packages  containing  her  various  belongings,  I  saw 
that  she  hung  back  and  evidently  had  something 
further  on  her  mind.  To  bring  the  really  painful 
visit  to  an  end,  I  asked  if  I  could  do  anything  for 
her.  She  hesitated,  and  then  whispered, 

"  Would  you  show  me  your  new  clothes  ?  I've  a 
great  deal  to  fix  over.  I  didn't  buy  a  trousseau,  as 
your  Uncle  Jabez  was  changing  his  charge  at  the 
time  of  our  wedding.  Have  you  anything  tasteful 
in  hats  ?  Being  at  the  head  of  a  parish,  and  going 
to  teas,  cake-sales,  funerals,  and  experience  meet- 
ings, I'm  called  upon  for  quite  a  change." 

The  relief  was  almost  too  sudden.  At  last  a 
subject  that  could  not  breed  strife!  I  showed  her 
my  modest  store,  —  a  London  tailor  suit,  some  dainty 
waists,  an  outing  gown,  an  evening  dress,  a  fur 
jacket,  and  the  hats.  Hats  have  always  been  one 
of  my  weaknesses.  You  can  express  so  much  in 
a  hat ;  it  often  calls  for  flowers,  and  it  requires  very 
few  stitches.  Other  sewing  seems  such  a  waste 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  153 

of  time,  the  cutting  of  good  cloth  into  more  or  less 
fantastic  shapes,  and  then  pricking  it  full  of  holes 
with  a  needle. 

Poor  soul !  how  longingly  she  handled  the  head- 
gear, picked  and  puffed  out  the  bows  and  flowers, 
and  laid  each  down  with  a  sigh,  lingering  over  a 
girl's  soft  Alpine  felt  whose  only  decoration  was  a 
band  and  buckle.  Aunt  Lot  is  rather  pretty  out- 
side, but  in  a  faded  sort  of  way,  as  if  the  fire  of  her 
constant  and,  as  she  thinks,  righteous,  indignation 
had  had  its  searing  effect. 

She  hung  over  one  puffy  little  toque  of  mouse-gray 
velvet  with  a  big  pink  rose  set  squarely  in  front, 
murmuring  her  desire  to  try  it  on,  as,  if  it  became 
her,  I  might  let  her  copy  it,  of  course  in  cheaper 
material !  An  inspiration  !  I  immediately  offered  to 
give  the  thing  to  her,  promising  to  add  strings  to  make 
it  bonnet-like,  and  to  veil  the  brightness  of  the  rose 
with  black  tulle,  —  all  the  work  of  a  few  minutes. 

She  accepted  the  gift  with  alacrity  that  bore  a 
resemblance  to  pleasure,  but  resented  the  strings 
as  too  heating,  also  the  hiding  of  the  rose,  saying 
that  Jabez  liked  pink. 

How  strange  it  is  that  the  only  effort  of  so  many 
well-meaning  women  to  keep  young  is  by  dressing 
in  the  way  that  most  accentuates  their  wrinkles,  con- 


154  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

cealing  the  gray  locks  that  soften  the  face,  by  either 
covering  the  forehead  with  a  sort  of  scrambled  egg 
arrangement  of  brown  curls  or  mounting  the  horror 
of  a  fat  artificial  pompadour ! 

The  doorstep  was  reached  at  last,  and  the  packages 
stowed  in  the  rockaway ;  I  breathed  more  freely,  but 
no,  there  was  a  last  word,  and  it  was  not  mine. 
With  her  foot  on  the  step,  Aunt  Lot  turned  to 
say,— 

"  Now,  Barbara,  when  Delia  marries  at  Christmas, 
you'll  doubtless  have  difficulty  in  getting  a  waitress. 
This  commuting  business,  with  early  breakfast  and 
late  dinner,  and  the  dishes  to  wash  up  at  goodness 
knows  what  hours,  isn't  popular,  and  you'll  have 
trouble.  But  if  you'll  let  me,  I  can  get  you  a  good 
young  woman  from  our  town.  She  is  not  very 
strong  and  she  has  never  lived  out,  so  she  wouldn't 
expect  high  wages,  and  I  might  keep  her  a  few  weeks 
without  pay  to  help  me  out  and  counsel  and  train 
her  for  you." 

At  this  juncture  from  some  cause  known  only  to 
Tim,  the  horse  grew  restive,  and  I  had  just  sufficient 
self-control  left  to  cross  the  piazza.,  enter  the  house, 
and  close  the  door  without  banging  it;  then  I  flew 
up  to  the  attic,  followed  by  Bluff,  who  had  been  in 
hiding  behind  of  the  study  sofa,  as  he  had  never 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  155 

forgiven  Aunt  Lot  for  once  beating  him  with  her 
parasol,  his  only  whipping  as  far  as  I  knew,  when 
he  had  given  her  a  too  affectionate  greeting  on  her 
return  from  making  state  calls. 

Once  in  my  retreat,  I  closed  the  door  and  lay  on 
the  old  lounge  panting;  I  remained  there,  saying 
things  for  quite  a  time,  and  finally  recovered  enough 
to  take  my  outlook  seat  at  the  dormer  window. 

Oh,  the  soothing  whisper  of  outdoors  even  when 
the  voice  comes  from  leafless  trees  having  a  clearer, 
more  incisive  tone  than  that  of  dense  leafage,  and 
the  pines  and  spruces  come  forward  and  keep  up  a 
full  accompaniment  like  the  lapping  of  waves  that 
is  unheard  at  an  earlier  season. 

As  I  looked  out  I  realized  a  feature  that  I  had 
never  before  noticed.  The  evergreens,  so  old  that 
they  had  lost  all  Christmas-tree  stiffness  and  taken 
easy  attitudes,  had  been  so  planted  that  as  the  elms 
and  maples  lost  their  leaves,  they  seemed  to  dis- 
appear into  the  draperies  of  these  sturdy  trees,  and 
be  replaced  by  them.  So  that  on  hill,  grass  slope, 
or  flanking  the  walk  the  furry  green  of  white  pines 
or  the  fretwork  of  spruce  and  hemlock  barred  out 
winter  desolation,  while  the  living  green  in  the  form 
of  younger  bird-sown  seedlings  of  the  old  trees 
crosses  the  woody  pasture  until  it  blends  with  the 


156  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

sombre  tone  of  the  native  red  cedars  that  gather 
round  the  bars. 

Woman ;  you  who  have  bought  the  bit  of  ground 
with  trees  on  the  cross-road,  that  your  children  may 
be  born  to  country  life,  plant  evergreens  in  the  north 
for  a  windbreak  and  on  the  south  for  a  pleasure  to 
the  eye.  Not  the  new-fangled  blue  spruces,  golden 
hemlocks  fit  only  to  be  confined  to  the  lawn  as 
breeze-excluding  ornaments,  or  the  stunted  firs  of 
florist's  catalogues,  but  the  sturdy  old  forest  trees 
that  rear  their  heads  laughing  in  the  gale  and  grow 
mightily,  white  pines  and  the  Scotch  fir  of  ruddy 
bark,  white  and  black  spruce  of  long  or  clustering 
cones,  graceful  hemlock  spruce,  and  the  dwarfer  bal- 
sam fir  of  fragrant  breath. 

These  are  the  things  of  the  garden  of  winter  that 
none  may  spare,  and  they  also  become  welcome 
havens  to  the  birds  that  are  brave  enough  to  bear  us 
company. 

I  was  quite  soothed  by  the  prospect  before  me  in 
combination  with  the  warmth  of  Bluff's  body,  for  he 
sat  leaning  against  my  knees  with  his  chin  resting  in 
my  hands  and  eyes  fixed  on  my  face.  A  knock  on 
the  door  broke  the  spell. 

Enter  MartJta  Corkle,  neat,  respectful,  but  evidently 
labouring  under  excitement. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  157 

"  Mrs.  Evan,  what  ham  I  ?  You  having  told  me 
never  to  take  kitchen  complaints  to  Mr.  Evan,  I'm 
obliged  to  ask  you,  and  no  disrespect  intended,  what 
I  ham." 

For  a  moment  I  thought  she  had  lost  her  mind, 
then  I  realized  that  Aunt  Lot's  visit  to  the  kitchen 
had  probably  created  some  sort  of  storm,  and  that 
Martha's  query  was  a  bit  of  the  wreckage,  so  I 
waited  for  further  information. 

"  Ham  I  'ousekeeper  with  hauthority  over  the  two 
maids,  or  only  cook  ?  and  if  but  cook,  does  my  word 
'old  in  the  kitchen  ? " 

Shades  of  inherited  service  descending  upon  an 
overfree  country,  this  was  indeed  a  dilemma !  I 
temporized  from  lack  of  ability  to  express  in  suit- 
able words  the  entire  liberty  of  the  house  servant. 
Perchance  if  Martha  understood,  she  would  be 
reasonable,  for  I  simply  would  not  have  domestic 
broils. 

"You  are  Martha  Corkle,  Mr.  Evan's  old  nurse, 
of  whom  he  thought  so  much  that  when  he  left 
his  old  home  he  brought  you  away  with  him.  I 
knew  that  our  ways  are  not  yours,  and  I  was 
afraid  that  you  would  be  unhappy ;  but  I  did  not 
want  to  disappoint  the  master  by  telling  him  so, 
and  I  thought  that  a  familiar  face  might  make  it 


158  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

seem  more  homelike  here  to  him.  In  this  coun- 
try, unless  it  is  a  great  household  of  many  men 
and  maids,  we  do  not  put  one  in  authority  over  the 
others,  for  the  mistress  is  the  housekeeper. 

"You  are  the  cook,  and  it  is  your  place  to  be 
motherly  and  make  the  kitchen  pleasant  to  the 
others  who  are  younger  and  have  not  the  advan- 
tage of  your  training ;  but  if  they  make  you  dis- 
comfort that  you  cannot  avoid,  tell  me,  and  I  will 
speak  to  them.  What  was  the  trouble  to-day  ? " 

"  Tea,  Mrs.  Evan,  tea  and  pins  on  my  pastry 
board.  Not  but  what  the  allowance  is  liberal 
enough  and  to  spare  for  the  extra  cup  that  it 
makes  a  body  feel  homelike  to  draw  when  they  so 
likes,  but  the  quality.  I  stand  by  English  break- 
fast as  the  wholesomest  and  most  tasty,  Eliza  and 
Delia  prefers  rank  oolong,  which  I  hold  puckers 
the  stomach  and  coppers  it. 

"This  morning  you  wrote  the  order  for  the 
grocer  for  so  much  tea,  at  so  much  a  pound  weight, 
without  mention  of  the  kind.  I  tells  him  break- 
fast, Delia  says  oolong.  When  I  disputes  her 
right,  she  says  that  two  wants  it,  and  over  here 
the  majority  rules!  and  I  want  to  know  must  I 
have  my  inwards  coppered  or  drop  tea?" 

The  situation  was  both  comical  and  pathetic,  for 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  159 

in  the  selfishness  of  majority  rule  how  often 
individuality  as  well  as  individual  right  is  made  to 
suffer. 

"  How  about  the  pins  ? "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  this  way.  The  others  being  through 
before  me  of  an  afternoon  and  at  leisure  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  their  room  being  overcool 
for  sitting,  bring  their  sewing  to  my  kitchen,  and 
instead  of  keeping  it  neat  and  together,  Mrs. 
Evan,  they  scatters  their  needles  and  pins  about 
reckless,  yesterday  leaving  pins  on  the  edge  of 
the  board  itself  where  I  was  making  those  pa'tridge 
the  doctor  bagged,  into  a  game  pasty,  and  two 
pins  rolled  into  the  hupper  crust,  it  being  a  mercy 
that  they  pointed  up  and  I  saw  them.  The  blame 
of  them  would  be  to  me,  and  yet  I  have  no  say-so 
to  stop  it." 

My  native  spunk  urged  me  to  say  that  she  had 
better  return  home  if  she  was  discontented,  but 
then  my  Familiar  Spirit  who  often  talks  with  me 
and  sometimes  gives  good  advice,  made  a  sugges- 
tion; for  after  all,  there  was  reason  under  the 
grievance,  and  that  is  too  often  overlooked  in 
kitchen  matters.  Surely  the  girls  should  have  a 
place  to  sit  and  sew. 

"  Martha,"  I  said,  "  there   are   many  things   that 


160  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

I  shall  readjust  and  change,  but  I  cannot  do  it  at 
once.  Let  us  both  be  patient  and  help  each  other 
for  Mr.  Evan's  sake. 

"You  shall  have  your  own  allowance  of  break- 
fast tea,  and  the  others  their  oolong,  for  they,  also, 
have  a  right  of  choice ;  and  to-morrow  I  will  have 
the  little  storeroom  out  of  the  kitchen  cleaned 
and  fitted  for  a  sitting  room,  with  table,  lamp,  a 
spare  sofa  from  upstairs,  and,  perhaps,  a  sewing- 
machine,  and  then  it  will  be  against  the  rule  to 
have  sewing  in  the  kitchen.  But  if  you  still  feel 
discontented  in  the  spring,  I'm  sure  Mr.  Evan 
will  send  you  home  again." 

"I'm  not  for  goin'  that  far  in  complaints,  Mrs. 
Evan,"  she  replied,  in  evident  horror  at  striking 
her  colours  or  at  implied  desertion  of  one  of  "  the 
family,"  even  if  only  the  youngest  son.  "  And 
now  that  you  understand  me,  Mrs.  Evan,  is  con- 
solin,'  and  I'll  say  no  more,  as  the  pins  is  to 

go." 

Exit  Martha  Corkle. 

The  clumping  made  by  her  flat,  stout,  English 
shoes  on  the  stairs  had  hardly  ceased  when  it 
seemed  to  begin  again.  Was  she  returning? 

No,  Bluff  gave  the  growl  that  announced  a 
stranger,  who  knocked  with  masculine  vigour. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  161 

Enter  Mrs.  Mullins,  —  a  one-time  cook,  but  now 
a  portly  Irish  matron,  owner  of  a  smooth  tongue, 
that  lies  comfortably  and  coaxes  successfully,  a 
cow,  two  pigs,  numerous  fowls,  and  an  onion  field, 
in  addition  to  a  husband  and  five  daughters.  In 
spite  of  being  a  perfectly  healthy  woman,  she  had 
come  to  father  at  diverse  times  with  the  symptoms 
of  all  the  ordinary  diseases  at  her  tongue's  end,  of 
which  same  troubles  she  was  miraculously  cured  by 
chalk  powders  and  brown  dough  pills,  so  I  went 
directly  for  her  chief  foible. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Mullins,  what  is  amiss  with  you  to- 
day ?  Is  the  pain  in  your  head  or  your  heels  ?  for 
you  are  too  thrifty  to  leave  home  before  dinner- 
time merely  to  make  a  call." 

"And  yer  right  and  yer  wrong,  Miss  Barbara, 
darlint;  God  forgive  me,  for  Mrs.  it  is!  I'm  never 
the  one  for  gallivantin'  in  the  mornin'  widout  cause ; 
but,  all  the  same,  the  trouble's  not  mine,  but  an- 
other's, and  as  it's  well-nigh  noon,  I'll  make  short 
words  of  it.  It's  Dalia.  Your  Dalia  that  has  shook 
off  her  match  and  has  asked  me,  she  bein'  ashamed 
to  face  it  and  expectin'  reproaches,  if  you'll  kape 
her  on  in  her  place,  for  she's  entoirely  out  of  the 
notion  of  marriage." 

"  Delia  not  going  to  be  married !  and  her  wedding 


162  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

gown  bought,  and  the  date  set  for  Christmas,  after 
all  the  talk  of  the  fine  house  Patsy's  mother  was 
to  deed  to  them  on  the  wedding  day?" 

"That  same  talk's  the  meat  of  the  trouble  en- 
toirely,  —  Dalia  give  out  about  the  day  and  the 
house,  Mrs.  Doolan  she  smoiled  an'  says,  'There's 
toime  enough  yet.  Patsy's  but  a  lad,  only  thirty- 
five  come  Easter  next.  Av  course,  and  him  my  only 
son  and  me  a  widdy,  when  I  bespoke  Dalia  for  him ' 
(for  they  do  say  it  was  the  mother  that  fixed  the 
match  to  plaze  him,  Patsy  bein'  too  bashful),  '  I 
give  promise  o'  the  house  on  the  weddin'  day,'  givin' 
a  big  wink,  '  but  that  same  day  is  not  yit  set.' 

"  Dalia  claimed  she'd  bring  Mother  Doolan  round 
all  so  fine,  and  worked  Patsy  to  backing  her  up,  for 
as  they'd  been  keepin'  company,  two  years  come 
Michaelmas,  she'd  the  right  of  thinkin'  of  being 
settled,  and  settled  now  it  is.  It  wor  well  before 
dark  Hallowe'en  when  Patsy  come  creepin'  up  the 
lane  wid  Dalia,  she  laughin'  and  confident,  well 
pleased  wid  herself,  and  castin'  her  black  eyes 
around  sassy  like.  But  he  wor  unaisy,  and  all 
broken  out  on  the  face  wid  sweat,  though  a  cool 
evenin'. 

"  Says  I  to  my  oldest  daughter  Kate,  who  was 
home,  there  bein'  a  strike  in  the  shoeshop,  '  Puttin*  it 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  163 

together  wid  the  words  the  old  woman  spoke  the  day, 
they're  a-walkin'  reckless  near  home/  'Look,  mother, 
for  the  love  o'  heaven,  they're  a-goin'  in !  Dalia 
t'reatened  to  have  it  out,  and  there'll  be  music  for  sure.' 

"  And  widout  another  word,  us  two,  being  o'  wan 
moind,  clipped  out  in  the  shed  that  commands  Doo- 
lan's  premises  through  a  knot-hole  that  Katie's 
enlarged  a  bit  for  convaynience.  But  I  hadn't  got 
me  best  eye  placed  comfortable,  —  the  doctor,  bless 
him,  knows  well  the  trouble  I  had  wid  me  off  eye,  — 
when  something  flew  out  o'  Doolan's  front  door,  dasht 
boy,  and  up  the  lane  to  the  turnpoike. 

"  When  I  got  me  soight  straight,  I  saw  it  was  them 
three  all  a-sprintin'  for  dear  loife.  Patsy  was  a 
leadin',  Dalia  a-followin',  givin'  him  her  mind  for 
outrunnin'  her.  Old  Mrs.  Doolan,  a  lashin'  the  air 
wid  a  big  broom,  was  but  a  step  in  the  rear. 

" '  But  there'll  be  murther  done,'  says  I  to  Katie, 
and  we  shlipt  down  the  road  behind  the  cedar 
bushes.  In  that  we  was  dishappointed,  for  just  be- 
fore they  all  reached  the  turn,  Dalia  passed  Patsy, 
givin'  him  a  terrible  cuff,  and  callin',  '  Take  that, 
ye  quakin'  bowl  o'  mush ! '  that  he  stumbled  and 
fell  into  the  ditch,  from  which  Mrs.  Doolan  had  him 
out  in  an  eyewink,  and  was  leadin'  him  home  by  the 
ear  like  a  sthrayed  pig. 


164  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

"  Not  a  word  was  spoke  the  noight,  but  come  All 
Saints'  mornin'  I  took  up  wid  Mrs.  Doolan  goin'  to 
mass. 

" '  Mrs.  Mullins,'  says  she,  '  will  yer  belayve  me, 
Patsy's  that  fond  o'  me  he  can't  think  o'  marriage, 
and  he's  broke  wid  Dalia,  but  a  nice  farm  he'll  get 
the  day  he  does  it,  though  he  do  claim  the  girl's  not 
born  he'd  look  at  along  o'  me.  Yer  might  ha'  heard 
him  swearin'  it  only  lasht  night.' 

" '  Bad  cess  but  I  didn't,'  thought  I ;  but  I  said, 
1  Sure  the  boy's  but  a  lad,'  to  kape  the  peace,  me  pig- 
sty a  lappin'  a  bit  on  her  land,  the  same  convaynienc- 
ing  me  greatly. 

"  That  night  Patsy  he  come  a-bawlin'  and  prayin' 
to  me  to  coax  Dalia  to  see  him,  and  a-sayin'  he'd  lave 
the  old  woman  if  Dalia'd  make  up ;  and  I  had  fair  to 
trap  her  at  our  house,  she  was  that  contrary. 

" '  Dalia,  darlint,  whatever'll  I  do  ?  Have  patience ! 
the  old  woman  won't  last  forever,'  he  playded,  the 
tears  streamin'  from  him ;  '  and  if  ye  lave  me,  I'll  go 
drown  for  sure,'  he  begged  on  his  two  knees. 

" '  She's  long  outlasted  my  notion  for  you,'  quoth 
Dalia,  '  and  her  dyin'  would  change  nothin'.  There's 
two  buried  in  your  grave  already,  and  she'd  be  over- 
near  the  top  for  safety.  I've  got  sense,  thanks  to 
you,  Patsy  Doolan,  which  is  what  I  lacked  before.' 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  165 

And  she  walked  out,  and  Patsy  he  got  up  from  his 
two  knees,  and  to  kape  his  word  went  out  and 
drowned  hisself  in  drink  before  witnesses  in  Grogan's 
saloon." 

Mrs.  Mullins  talked  so  rapidly,  hurried  by  a  keen 
relish  of  her  subject,  that  I  followed  her  with  diffi- 
culty, divided  between  laughter  and  admiration  of 
Delia's  spirit.  So  when  Mrs.  Mullins  creaked  down- 
stairs, she  carried  the  tidings  to  the  girl  that,  failing 
of  being  a  bride,  she  might  still  be  a  waitress  without 
reproach. 

Having  a  healthy  appetite,  and  no  woman  being 
within  reach  with  whom  I  could  discuss  the  morn- 
ing's happenings,  thereby  magnifying  their  impor- 
tance, I  went  in  search  of  luncheon,  and  by  the  time 
it  appeared,  together  with  father,  the  only  part  of  the 
trilogy  of  woes  that  seemed  worth  repeating  was  Mrs. 
Mullins' s  account  of  the  failure  of  Delia's  venture  in 
real  estate. 


X 

WINTER 

THE    GARDEN    OF    BOOKS 

December  3.  Winter  has  come  in  a  single  night, 
the  picturesque  winter  of  Christmas  cards  wrapped 
snugly  in  ermine  robes  and  travelling  to  the  jingle  of 
sleigh  bells.  It  is  only  occasionally  that  he  travels  in 
this  guise,  more  often  coming  as  gaunt  Black  Frost 
with  the  northwind  for  pace-maker,  trampling  the 
naked  fields  with  mailed  feet,  freezing  the  very  pith 
of  the  leafless  trees,  numbing  the  huddled  birds  as 
they  glean  seed  in  the  furrows,  and  making  us  feel 
the  hopeless  cruelty  of  Nature's  sterner  moods  when 
unassuaged  by  human  kindness. 

However  fickle  our  climate  may  be,  it  is  never 
monotonous,  and  so  after  three  open,  or  at  least 
snowless  winters,  to-morrow  many  sleighs  will  be  let 
down  from  the  lofts  where  they  were  fast  sinking  into 
Rip  van  Winkle  sleep,  while  wolf  skins  and  buffalo 
robes,  the  relics  of  a  vanished  tribe,  will  leave  the 
camphor  chests,  and  again  see  the  light  of  day. 
166 


GARDEN    OF  A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     167 

Night  before  last  was  the  time  of  the  "watch  fires." 
The  sun  went  down  with  the  clear  red  afterglow  that 
in  summer  usually  indicates  the  coming  of  hot  dry 
weather.  The  air  in  fact  was  warm,  of  the  real 
Indian  summer  softness,  such  as  often  continues  for 
many  weeks  after  the  killing  frosts  of  middle  No- 
vember. 

I  am  glad  that  the  watch  fires  are  still  kept  up.  I 
remember  being  wakened,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  and 
taken  out  to  light  my  first  fire.  Father  himself 
started  the  custom,  and  I  feared  that  it  might  have 
died  out  during  my  absence,  with  other  signs  of  the 
seasons  that  add  so  much  to  country  living. 

All  through  the  autumn,  as  the  farmers  cut  the 
brush  from  meadow  edges  or  cleared  weeds  and  stub- 
ble from  the  corn-fields,  fires  would  be  seen  at  night, 
the  leisure  time  they  took  for  burning  the  rubbish. 
Oftentimes  these  fires  were  lighted,  and  being  left  to 
tend  themselves,  spread,  doing  much  damage,  or  else 
a  conflagration  of  house  or  barn  was  thought  to  be 
merely  a  brush  fire,  and  so  neighbourly  aid  was  with- 
held. 

For  these  reasons  father  had  suggested  that 
every  one  should  gather  his  rubbish  as  usual,  but 
wait  to  burn  it  until  the  first  night  of  winter,  when 
all  the  neighbourhood  could  be  out  and  on  the 


168  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

watch  to  see  and  enjoy  the  bonfires  that  flickered 
from  hill  to  hill  quite  out  to  the  point  that  runs 
into  the  bay,  and  make  a  festival  of  "watching  in" 
winter. 

Evan  and  I  went  together  to  the  hilltop  well  back 
of  the  house  and  woods,  where  Bertie  had  collected 
a  grand  pyre  of  stubble,  shrub  trimmings,  and  weed 
hay  from  the  roadsides,  all  capped  and  held  in  place 
by  pine  and  hemlock  boughs  that  had  been  cut  away 
in  clearing  the  meandering  cowpath  that  was  to  be 
the  walk  through  our  wild  garden  in  the  wood  lot. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  the  many  voices  coming 
from  afar  and  the  vivid  flames  lent  an  air  of  newness 
and  mystery  to  familiar  surroundings.  Every  time 
Evan  stirred  the  pile  with  his  fork,  the  landscape 
perspective  changed,  and  now  and  then  a  weasel, 
a  fox,  or  some  other  little  night-prowling  animal, 
startled  from  its  lair,  would  dart  across  a  streak  of 
light,  to  be  instantly  swallowed  by  the  darkness  again. 

Finally  the  last  flicker  died  away ;  and  when  noth- 
ing remained  but  a  glowing  circle  of  embers  that 
could  do  no  harm  in  the  middle  of  the  ploughed 
field,  we  strolled  slowly  home,  Evan  with  his  coat  on 
his  arm,  and  I  fanning  my  face  which  the  fire  had 
toasted,  with  my  useful  but  rather  dilapidated  hat 
which  had  seen  service  as  carrier  for  nuts  or  small 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  169 

tufts  of  ebony  spleenwort,  pipsissewa,  or  partridge 
berry  that  from  time  to  time  I  added  to  the  little  wild 
fernery  that  lives  in  the  middle  of  the  dinner  table. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  winter  ? "  asked  Evan,  who 
had  been  away  for  a  few  days'  visit  to  an  F.  M.  (an 
American  title  signifying  Financial  Mightiness) 
whose  recent  purchase  of  a  tract  of  forest,  field,  and 
river  was  to  be  turned  into  a  home  park. 

"  Is  any  one  ever  ready  to  be  shut  in  or  see  the 
friendly  earth  so  seemingly  dead  ?  But  if  you  mean 
have  I  done  all  the  outdoor  gardening  that  is  pos- 
sible before  spring,  I  can  certainly  say  that  I  have, 
and  that  I  am  ready  for  winter.  The  narcissus, 
Bermuda  lilies,  Roman  hyacinths,  early  tulips,  and 
freezias  are  all  potted  and  buried  in  the  cold  frame, 
ready  to  be  brought  in  succession  as  house  plants. 
I've  sown  ounces,  in  fact  quite  half  a  pound  of 
Shirley  poppy  seed  in  front  of  the  hardy  plants,  the 
entire  length  of  the  walk  on  the  way  to  the  sun 
garden  ;  the  perennials  have  cedar  bough  windbrakes 
over  them,  the  old  roses  are  mulched  with  coarse 
litter,  and  the  new  ones  are  all  bonneted  with  straw 
after  the  most  approved  fashion.  The  only  thing 
remaining  to  be  done  when  the  ground  freezes  for 
good  is  to  cover  the  bulbs  outside  the  study  win- 
dows. 


I/O  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

"  Then,"  said  Evan,  slyly,  "  I  think  I  shall  not  be 
interfering  with  your  garden  operations  if  I  bring 
home  some  plans  to-morrow  night  and  work  over 
them  here  where  I  can  be  free  from  interruptions. 
Incidentally,  I  might  spare  a  few  hours  of  daylight 
to  unpack  my  bachelor  belongings,  and  get  our 
books  into  winter  quarters." 

He  knew  exactly  what  I  should  say,  or  rather  do, 
and  he  slipped  around  a  tree  that  we  were  passing, 
thereby  causing  me  to  embrace  it  fervently  in  the 
dark,  bumping  my  tip-tilted  nose. 

Ah,  the  joy  of  unexpected  holidays !  their  ecstasy 
must  be  forever  missing  to  the  habitually  leisure 
class.  Even  the  dogs  sniff  the  news  in  the  air  on 
the  rare  autumn  field-days  that  father  takes,  and  by 
the  time  he  brings  out  his  gun  and  examines  stock 
and  muzzle,  they  are  running  circling  about  in  a 
frenzy  of  excitement. 

Precisely  this  feeling  possessed  me  when  Evan 
said  that  he  could  do  his  planning  here.  Yet  such 
a  creature  of  contrariety  am  I,  that  I  can  imagine 
nothing  more  deadly  to  motive  and  affection  than 
to  have  one's  husband  belong  to  the  American 
branch  of  that  pernicious  institution  known  as  "  The 
Men  who  Stay  at  Home."  The  subtle  art  of  being 
agreeable  though  unemployed  in  the  technical  sense 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  171 

requires  both  heredity  and  greater  preparation  than 
most  of  the  learned  professions,  and  to  be  done  well 
must  be  the  outcome  of  an  older  and  possibly  more 
degenerate  civilization  than  ours.  For  here,  save 
in  exceptional  Newport-like  communities,  "The  Man 
who  Stays  at  Home "  must,  as  far  as  male  com- 
panionship goes,  suffer  the  pangs  of  Robinson 
Crusoe  loneliness,  which  does  not  improve  his 
temper. 

But  it  is  pure  joy  to  have  Evan  for  a  few  precious 
days  all  to  myself  in  the  den,  where  I  can  sit  in  the 
window  and  watch  him  make  his  free-hand  water- 
colour  plans  from  the  necessary  but  stiff  scale  draw- 
ings, knowing  when  he  is  satisfied  by  the  way  in 
which  he  rumples  his  hair,  and  when  perplexed  by 
his  horseshoe  scowl.  There  is  something  very 
interesting  to  me  about  an  occasional  horseshoe 
scowl,  savouring  as  it  does  of  the  wild  but  satisfac- 
tory hero  of  Miss  Edwards's  "  Barbara's  History," 
one  of  my  favourite  novels. 


Yesterday  morning  the  weather  was  gray  and 
threatening.  The  lowlands  were  white  with  frost, 
and  upon  trying  to  uncover  the  frame  to  pick  Evan's 
violets,  I  found  the  straw  mats  frozen  to  the  glass ; 


i/2  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

an  occasional  snowflake  drifted  through  the  air,  but 
with  the  motivelessness  of  a  floating  feather. 

Bertie,  who  has  also  been  a  sailor  and  is  wise  in 
weather  signs,  predicted  a  storm,  and  suggested,  as 
it  was  Saturday  and  there  was  little  to  do,  that  he 
should  drive  over  to  the  sawmill  for  a  supply  of 
lumber  from  which  during  the  next  three  months  he 
is  to  construct  and  fashion  new  hotbed  frames  for 
the  spring  seeds,  garden  seats,  plant-boxes  to  screen 
the  piazza.,  and  the  framework  for  supporting  the 
chicken  wire  upon  which  sweet  peas,  nasturtiums, 
and  other  summer  vines  are  to  be  trained.  By 
planning  winter  work  for  Bertie  we  can  keep  him 
the  year  through,  and  so  be  spared  the  uncertainty 
of  looking  up  a  new  man  every  spring, — a  trial  from 
which  many  gardens  and  dispositions  suffer. 

By  noon,  when  he  returned  with  the  first  load, 
snow  was  falling  in  soft,  irregular  flakes  that  by  three 
o'clock  had  grown  finer  and  more  persistent,  while 
the  wind  was  rising  fast  and  the  pines  were  swept  to 
and  fro  by  the  unseen  force. 

Father  had  taken  an  all-day  drive  to  Stony  Hill  for 
a  consultation  and  must  return  in  the  face  of  the 
wind.  The  sudden  change  made  me  restless ;  I  could 
neither  sit  still  nor  stay  indoors  :  so  buttoning  myself 
into  an  ulster  with  a  hood,  I  called  the  dogs  and 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  173 

started  down  the  long  walk  to  the  path  through  the 
wood  lot. 

The  dogs  were  wild  with  excitement  which  they 
expressed  in  different  ways.  Pat  alternately  tiptoed 
along  and  made  bounds  into  the  air.  The  hounds, 
to  whom  snow  was  a  novelty,  pawed  and  played 
with  it,  took  great  mouthfuls,  then  rolled  and  finally, 
when  exhausted,  sat  down  to  rest,  only  to  jump  up 
again,  surprised  and  disappointed  at  the  inhospitable 
coldness  under  them.  Lark  started  off,  nose  to 
ground,  trying  to  unravel  the  crossed  trails  of  many 
rabbits  who,  evidently  surprised  by  the  storm  in 
their  daytime  forms  on  the  wood  edge,  had  thrown 
precaution  aside  and  hurried  helter-skelter  to  their 
holes.  Bluff  alone  stayed  close  beside  me,  sniffing 
and  glancing  about  apprehensively,  his  tail  held  close 
and  motionless. 

There  was  a  great  flocking  of  such  birds  as  live 
with  us  at  this  season,  and  much  chattering  and  com- 
motion. Jays  and  nut-hatches  were  hurrying  in 
from  the  oak  woods  to  the  shelter  of  the  evergreens, 
robins  sat  in  rows,  humped  and  sullen,  among  the 
cedars.  I  could  hear  the  plaintive  voices  of  invisible 
bluebirds,  various  sparrow  calls,  the  notes  of  cross- 
bill and  goldfinch,  while  the  occasional  "  keo-keo  "  of 
a  distant  red-tailed  hawk  made  me  feel  that  strange 


174  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

elements  were  abroad,  for  such  a  chorus  of  alarm 
cries  I  had  never  heard  save  in  the  anxious  nesting 
season. 

In  some  places  the  snow  was  even  and  a  couple 
of  inches  deep,  in  others  there  were  tiny  drifts,  while 
the  cowpath  itself  was  almost  bare.  The  seeded 
stalks  of  goldenrod,  mullein,  and  the  lattice-work  of 
the  wild  grapevines  took  fantastic  shapes  from  the 
clinging  snow,  above  which  the  Christmas  ferns 
emerged  crisp  and  shining. 

By  the  time  I  reached  the  end  of  the  path  at 
the  bars  and  turned  to  go  back,  I  began  to  realize 
the  blinding  power  of  snow,  for  both  the  fall  and  the 
wind  had  increased;  night  seemed  to  be  coming, 
and  I  was  almost  obliged  to  grope  my  way.  In 
crossing  the  sun  garden  I  walked  into  the  dial  post, 
in  turning  aside  from  the  apple  tree,  I  found  my- 
self under  the  rose  arbour  on  my  way  to  the  barn 
instead  of  near  the  house,  so  I  continued  on  to  put 
Pat  and  the  hounds  into  their  night  quarters  in  the 
stable. 

As  I  opened  the  door,  half  a  dozen  j  uncos  flew  in 
after  me,  and  bunched  half  exhausted  in  the  bottom 
of  a  hay-rack.  I  called  Bertie  and  told  him  to  open 
one  of  the  ventilating  windows  in  the  hay-barn,  on 
the  side  away  from  the  wind,  and  there  was  also 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  175 

shelter  for  the  birds  under  the  various  sheds.  Fi- 
nally I  struggled  back  to  the  house,  surprised  to  find 
myself  quite  spent. 

Martha  Corkle  was  in  a  state  of  ill-concealed 
alarm,  which  made  her  head  shake  ominously,  in 
spite  of  a  painstaking  dignity. 

"  Mrs.  Evan,"  she  whispered,  when  I  went  to  the 
kitchen  the  more  quickly  to  get  a  needed  cup  of  tea, 
"  Mrs.  Evan,  it's  a  mercy  the  'ouse  is  well  victualled 
and  blankets  and  coals  in  plenty.  The  last  time  I 
saw  a  storm  come  up  like  this,  I  was  but  a  girl, 
serving  Mr.  Evan's  uncle  in  his  shooting  lodge  in 
Scotland,  to  the  which  same  place  he  had  gone  to 
keep  Christmas. 

"  The  snow  came  that  deep  that  we  were  not  dug 
out  until  Twelfth  Night,  and  there  were  shepherds, 
sheep,  and  cattle  being  turned  up  at  times  until 
spring;  the  same,  of  course,  being  stiffened  corpses, 
the  thought  making  me  fearful  for  the  doctor  and 
Timothy  Saunders." 

I  laughingly  told  her  that  with  the  stout  gray 
horses  in  a  country  of  travelled  roads,  a  few  inches 
of  snow  meant  no  danger;  nevertheless,  I  was 
relieved  when,  a  little  before  six,  father  returned. 

"I've  known  nothing  like  it  except  the  great 
Storm  of  '88,"  he  said,  stamping  the  snow  from  his 


176  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

shoes,  while  the  whistling  wind  nearly  drowned  his 
voice,  "  and  this  time  yesterday  you  were  sitting  out 
on  the  porch,  Barbara,  and  I  was  driving  without 
an  overcoat." 

The  telephone  bell  rang,  blessed  nuisance !  Evan 
was  detained  in  town,  but  would  arrive  at  nine ;  we 
were  not  to  wait  dinner,  and  the  storm  was  not  yet 
bad  at  that  end  of  the  line.  This  comforting  mes- 
sage was  the  last  word  the  telephone  uttered  for 
five  days. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  Evan  came  home,  snow  hang- 
ing to  his  face,  bearding  it  white  as  Santa  Claus. 
After  a  bit  of  supper  we  all  went  to  bed,  feeling  a 
strange  sensation  of  suppressed  excitement,  for  the 
wind  was  shrill  as  when  keyed  by  a  ship's  rigging, 
in  "spite  of  the  muffling  snow  that  fell  with  a  posi- 
tive sifting  sound.  Bluff  and  Lark,  who  usually 
slept  on  the  door  mats  in  the  lower  hall,  insisted 
upon  coming  upstairs,  whining  and  fidgeting  until 
in  self-defence  we  let  them  in,  when  Lark  crawled 
behind  the  lounge,  and  Bluff  stretched  himself  beside 
my  bed,  whence  he  arose  at  intervals  to  lick  my  hand 
or  nose  as  if  in  assurance  of  protection. 

This  morning  there  were  none  of  the  usual 
sounds  of  day.  About  these,  however,  the  commuter 
troubles  himself  but  little  on  Sunday.  The  dense 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  177 

silence  was  more  disturbing  than  positive  sound  and 
seemed  to  press  upon  the  brain.  I  think  the 
present  experience  has  taught  me  an  intense  pity 
for  the  deaf,  who  in  the  midst  of  moving  objects 
must  perpetually  feel  this  tenseness  and  pressure 
of  silence. 

Outside  was  a  world  of  snow  which  was  three  feet 
deep  on  a  level  and  everywhere  billowed  into  fanciful 
drifts.  There  were  no  paths,  no  fences;  one 
unbroken  sheet  stretched  from  the  front  door, 
covering  bank-wall,  and  road,  levelling  them  with 
the  field  beyond. 

It  was  impossible  to  open  the  east  door,  so 
deeply  was  the  snow  heaped  against  it,  and  the 
dogs  cowered  and  refused  to  go  out,  even  by 
the  back  way,  where  the  wind  had  left  a  bare 
spot. 

Bertie  had  not  appeared,  and  Tim  with  difficulty 
fought  his  way  in,  bringing  the  milk  pails,  and 
has  remained  here  ever  since.  It  was  of  no  use  to 
attempt  the  breaking  of  paths  while  it  was  still 
snowing,  and  an  effort  to  free  even  the  back  stoop 
was  as  foolish  as  the  proverbial  task  of  sweeping 
the  wind  off  the  roof. 

Father  tried  to  call  up  the  hospital,  but  the  tele- 
phone was  useless.  The  lack  of  church  bells  told  the 


i;8  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

plight  of  the  village,  and  so  we  had  a  day  of  absolute 
and  enforced  rest  in  which  to  arrange  and  plant  our 
indoor  garden  of  books. 

The  one-time  parlour  across  the  hall  from  father's 
study  and  office  had  been  developing  (I  suppose 
Aunt  Lot  would  say  degenerating)  into  a  comfortable 
den  for  a  month  past 

The  best  chairs  that  for  so  many  years  had  stood 
primly  back  against  the  wall  were  scattered  about 
the  room,  their  places  taken  by  a  continuous  line 
of  book-shelves  of  a  height  that  left  picture  space 
above.  The  claw-footed  mahogany  table  was  drawn 
well  into  the  bay  and  littered  with  books  and  maga- 
zines in  a  way  that  must  have  surprised  it.  A  pair 
of  scroll-ended  mahogany  sofas  faced  each  other 
on  either  side  of  the  fireplace,  improvising  a  sort 
of  ingle  nook,  their  antique  and  inhospitable  hair- 
cloth hidden  by  the  bright,  harmonious  colours  of 
some  Mexican  rugs.  The  north  window  was  Evan's 
lair;  an  open  bookcase  jutted  out  on  either  side  to 
form  an  alcove  with  a  wide-topped  desk  between, 
while  I  had  a  somewhat  similar  nook  by  an  odd, 
doorlike  casement  at  one  side  of  the  fireplace.  A 
great  rug  and  a  few  big  chairs  made  up-  the 
furniture,  leaving  plenty  of  room  for  '  living,  moving, 
and  having  our  being.'  A  woman  educated  by  men 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  179 

soon  learns  the  importance  of  having  standing  room 
within  as  well  as  out  of  doors. 

There  are  many  things  that  make  the  account  of 
the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  not  only  seem 
possible  but  quite  an  everyday  affair,  and  the 
unpacking  and  rearranging  of  books  is  one  of 
them. 

The  plants  in  my  book  garden,  like  those  of  the 
hardy  beds,  were  jumbled  together,  regardless  of 
size,  colour,  or  season,  and  quite  overflowed  the 
space  allotted  them.  Evan  suggested  that  as  in  the 
outdoor  garden,  when  pressed  for  room,  we  should 
dispense  with  most  of  the  annuals,  —  the  books  of  but 
a  few  months'  bloom,  which  having  served  to  brighten 
a  brief  period,  have  no  lasting  qualities,  —  and  send 
them  to  the  hospital,  thus  giving  first  place  to  the 
books  of  perennial  delight  and  to  the  biennials,  — 
those  volumes  that  one  turns  to  at  least  every  other 
year.  To  this  I  agreed,  until  I  found  that  opinion 
plays  a  large  part  in  the  hardiness  of  books,  and 
that  they  cannot  be  as  arbitrarily  classified  as  flower 
seeds. 

My  little  library  was  built  up  of  three  periods, 
childhood,  girlhood,  womanhood ;  or  boyhood  would 
have  been  a  triter  term  for  the  first,  as  boys'  books 
preponderated  at  this  time.  Strange,  isn't  it,  that 


i8o  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

sex  should  be  asserted  in  books  at  a  time  when 
the  readers  are  the  most  sexless,  and  then  quite 
disappear  as  the  readers  themselves  develop  !  Books 
are  written  for  girls  and  boys,  "  The  Boy's  Own  Book," 
"  The  Girl's  Toymaker,"  but  never  "  A  Novel  for  a 
Woman,"  or  "  A  History  for  a  Man  "  appears. 

The  first  period  of  reading  stood  by  itself  and 
ranged  from  Grimm's  and  Laboulaye's  "  Fairy 
Tales,"  "  The  Wilds  of  Africa,"  "  Tommy  Try  and 
What  He  Did  in  Science,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  an 
expurgated  Gulliver,  "  Alice's  Adventures "  and  "Hia- 
watha," from  which  I  made  a  play  wholly  my  own, 
to  certain  famous  histories  and  biographies  that  may 
be  read  from  childhood  to  old  age,  each  reading 
yielding  new  meaning  according  to  the  development 
of  the  reader. 

Girlhood  began  with  Clarke's  "  Shakespeare's 
Heroines,"  Strickland's  "  Queens,"  "  Ivanhoe,"  "  The 
Pathfinder,"  and  "  Little  Women,"  —  a  combination 
of  the  literary,  martial,  and  domestic,  that  was  much 
to  my  taste.  Then  for  a  long  time  history  in  all  its 
branches,  especially  that  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
reigned  supreme,  and  with  it  came  folklore.  In  a 
single  year,  according  to  the  dates  written  on  the 
neat  record  book-plates  father  had  given  me,  I  be- 
came possessed  of  Brand's  "Popular  Antiquities," 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  181 

the  convenient  Bohn  edition  of  the  "  Chronicles  of 
Mathew  of  Westminster,"  "  Florence  of  Worcester," 
"  Roger  de  Hovenden,"  "  Ingulph,"  and  the  "  Ven- 
erable Bede,"  besides  Plutarch's  "  Lives,"  and  the 
ponderous  volumes  of  Schoolcraft  upon  our  own  In- 
dians, from  whom  I  then  fancied  myself  descended. 
Natural  history  and  the  poetical  side  of  nature 
came  later.  Figuier's  works  and  Emerson's  "  Trees 
and  Shrubs  of  Massachusetts "  hovered  about  my 
seventeenth  birthday  with  a  bevy  of  bird  books.  It 
had  never  before  seemed  any  more  necessary  for  me 
to  locate  the  birds,  with  which  I  was  wholly  familiar 
and  which  were  my  field  companions,  and  analyze 
them  by  means  of  books,  than  to  search  the  town 
records  for  statistics  concerning  my  neighbours  whose 
habits  and  daily  lives  were  open  to  me.  The  next 
year  I  met  Thoreau  quite  informally,  though  he  had 
always  been  within  easy  reach,  like  the  near  neigh- 
bour upon  whom  it  is  so  easy  to  call  that  we  put  it 
off,  and  Wilson  Flagg  went  with  me  to  the  attic  on 
rainy  summer  days  in  guise  of  "  Woods  and  By- 
ways of  New  England,"  and  its  companion  "  Birds 
and  Seasons,"  while  Burroughs  and  Hamilton  Gib- 
son were  as  a  pair  of  rose-coloured  glasses  through 
which  I  learned  at  once  to  differentiate  and  to  beau- 
tify everyday  things,  though  far  back  two  books 


182  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

belonging  to  mother  had  set  this  door  ajar.  They 
were  both  Michelet's  "  The  Bird  "  and  "  The  Ocean." 

Then  books  on  plants  and  gardening  followed 
thick  and  fast,  and  I  picked  up  a  few  inexpensive 
oddities  at  the  book  sales  when  I  went  with  father, 
sometimes  venturing  to  bid  myself, — the  "  Flora  His- 
torica  "  of  Phillips,  two  quaint  volumes  on  the  Three 
Seasons  of  the  British  Parterre  being  one  of  the 
results  of  my  prowess;  while  the  first  book  that 
Evan  gave  me  was  the  rare  North  American  Sylva 
of  Michaux  and  Nuttall,  with  coloured  plates. 

As  Evan  began  to  sort  and  stack  the  books,  I 
stood  by  in  a  state  of  increasing  alarm  as  one  fav- 
ourite after  another  went  to  build  up  the  pile  of 
annuals.  I  saw  the  Rollo  books  and  "The  Wide, 
Wide  World "  depart  without  a  sigh.  I  never 
cared  for  them  except  when  I  was  rather  feeble 
physically,  as  after  whooping-cough  or  the  mumps ; 
but  when  "  The  Parent's  Assistant "  and  Hooker's 
"  Child's  Book  of  Nature "  followed,  together  with 
"The  English  Orphans,"  "Les  Malheurs  de  Sophie," 
one  of  my  early  French  books,  "The  Children's  and 
the  Schoolgirl's  Garland "  of  Mrs.  Kirkland,  and 
"  The  Struggles  and  Triumphs  of  P.  T.  Barnum," 
a  souvenir  of  a  festive  trip  to  the  circus,  I  pro- 
tested. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  183 

"Do  you  ever  read  these  books?"  quoth  Evan, 
who  was  momentarily  becoming  aware  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  habit  with  book  lovers,  as  far  as  the 
the  shelf  room  was  concerned  we  were  expecting  to 
have  more  than  a  cat  in  her  skin. 

"  Of  course  I  haven't  recently." 

"  Do  you  ever  expect  to  again  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  —  that  is,  I  may  wish  to.  I  used  to 
like  them,  and  I  do  now,  though  I  can't  tell  why." 

"  I  will  give  you  an  idea,"  said  Evan,  as  he  saw 
my  expression.  "  Range  them  along  the  attic 
shelves  and  call  them  the  garden  of  remembrance, 
where  you  may  stray  for  memory's  sake,  just  as  we 
keep  in  an  odd  corner  of  the  outdoor  garden  some 
old-time  flowers  whose  use  is  gone,  whose  beauty  is 
questionable,  and  yet  the  remembrances  they  bring 
entitle  them  to  life." 

It  was  slow  work,  this  arranging ;  for  almost 
every  volume  had  something  to  say  or  a  reason  to 
give  why  it  should  be  planted  in  a  particular  nearby 
case.  *  It  was  noon  before  we  had  more  than  made 
a  beginning. 

Then  there  was  a  temporary  interruption  caused 
by  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  lived  far  up  the 
road.  He  was  first  seen  coming  zig-zag  along  the 
stone  fences  steadying  himself  with  a  pole.  He 


184  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

disappeared  twice  in  fifty  yards  from  losing  his  foot- 
ing and  stepping  into  a  drift,  and  when  he  finally 
reached  the  kitchen  door  he  was  exhausted,  having 
been  several  hours  in  coming  less  than  two  miles. 
His  quest  was  some  milk  for  his  baby,  as  of 
course  the  local  pedler  who  usually  supplied  him 
had  failed. 

After  he  had  rested  and  been  fed  with  hot  soup, 
Tim  went  to  start  him  on  his  way  back  along  a 
more  direct  line  of  fencing,  while  we  ate  our  mid- 
day meal  in  unusual  awestruck  silence.  Still  the 
snow  fell  and  the  wind  blew  without  cessation. 

Every  now  and  then  a  bird  driven  from  cover  by 
hunger,  would  be  dashed  against  a  window,  and 
before  night  half  a  dozen  such  unfortunates  had 
been  fed  and  were  resting  in  an  open-work  basket 
in  the  kitchen. 

A  sharp-shinned  hawk,  the  wildest  of  its  tribe 
perched  for  so  long  on  the  trellis  of  the  porch  that 
Evan  had  full  time  to  sketch  its  half-defiant,  half- 
cowed  attitude. 

Back  to  the  den  we  went,  and  after  the  books 
were  housed,  then  came  the  placing  of  the  pictures. 
I  had  some  Houbraken  prints  of  Shakespeare, 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  etc.,  and  my  special  pride,  a  beau- 
tiful copper  engraving  of  Van  Dyck's  Charles  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  185 

First,  with  his  war  horse,  a  print  full  of  light  and 
brilliant  blacks.  Evan  has  a  Rembrandt's  Three 
Trees,  Earlom's  mezzotint  fruit  and  flower  pieces,  two 
"Kit  Kat"  pictures  by  Kneller,  of  Dick  Steele  and 
Congreve  in  the  same  style  as  father's  Dr.  Garth  of 
Dispensary  fame,  Tonson,  the  bookseller,  an  engrav- 
ing of  the  two  Tradescants,  gardeners  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  a  set  of  coloured  prints  of  men  of  the  Lin- 
nsean  school,  in  which  the  head  is  as  it  were  framed 
in  an  engraved  oval.  He  has,  besides,  a  dozen  last- 
century  prints,  also  coloured,  of  many  famous  gar- 
dens of  the  Thames,  —  Hampton  Court,  Vauxhall, 
Kew,  Ranelegh,  and  St.  James's  Park;  and  lastly, 
the  very  apple  of  his  eye,  an  engraving  on  copper 
representing  Charles  the  Second  with  his  spaniels  in 
the  gardens  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland  at  Dauney 
Court,  while  Rose  the  gardener  is  in  the  act  of  pre- 
senting the  king  with  the  first  English-grown  pine- 
apple. 

At  last  all  was  arranged,  the  garden  pictures  mak- 
ing a  harmonious  frieze  above  the  book-shelves. 
Only  one  gap  remained;  the  broad  panel  over  the 
mantelshelf  was  quite  empty. 

"  Something  will  turn  up,  as  usual,"  said  Evan, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  as  we  laughed  at  the  omis- 
sion, for  we  should  have  begun  with  filling  this  space. 


186  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

"  Some  day  I  will  have  a  portrait  painted  for  this 
panel.  It  shall  be  of  you,  Barbara,  in  the  garden 
with  Bluff,  your  faithful  squire,  at  your  feet.  Who 
shall  the  artists  be?  It  will  need  three,  —  a  por- 
trait, an  animal,  and  a  flower  painter." 

"  Meanwhile,  take  this,"  said  father,  crossing  the 
hall,  carrying  a  portrait  in  a  plain  Dutch  oak  frame, 
that  had  long  hung  over  his  study  mantel. 

"Linnaeus!  Are  you  really  going  to  part  with 
him?"  I  cried,  in  joyful  amazement.  "You  angelic 
father !  it  is  the  one  thing  needful  to  complete  the 
room.  But  our  old  shrine  will  be  desolate." 

"The  truth  is,  Barbara,  I've  something  to  replace 
it.  You  know  how  long  I've  been  collecting  por- 
traits of  the  men  that  were  the  founders  of  my  pro- 
fession, both  medical  and  surgical,  the  Houbraken 
Harvey,  Galen,  Sydenham,  Par£,  and  all  the  rest  ? 
After  your  Aunt  Lot's  marriage,  I  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  group  them  in  one  large  frame,  without 
being  reproached  for  extravagance,  thus  putting 
these  worthies  in  a  house  with  many  windows,  as  it 
were,  where,  being  together,  each  may  keep  his  sepa- 
rate point  of  view.  But  disliking  to  disturb  anything 
your  wish  had  placed,  I  let  Linnaeus  keep  his  shrine, 
storing  the  prints  close  at  hand  in  my  office  closet, 
until  your  return." 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  187 

Dear  father !  the  buying  of  the  Linnaeus  portrait 
had  been  one  of  our  booksale  romances  that  had 
culminated  in  the  Dodoen's  "  Herbal "  and  Evan.  It 
happened  on  a  dreary  February  day.  Father  was 
browsing  along  a  line  of  dingy  books  in  the  auction 
room,  scanning  them  closely  in  the  dim  light,  when 
his  foot  struck  against  a  picture-frame  that  rested  on  ' 
the  floor,  causing  it  to  tip  forward.  A  hasty  glance  at 
the  face  interested  him,  and  he  asked  an  attendant  to 
move  the  frame  into  the  light.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  a  man  done  in  oils,  life  size,  and  a  little  more  than 
waist  length.  The  face  was  clear  cut  and  alert,  the 
head  covered  by  a  white  wig  that  curled  above  the 
ears.  A  dark  green  coat  with  red  collar  opening 
slightly  over  a  buff  vest  was  finished  at  neck  and 
wrist  by  lace  frills.  A  glance  told  that  the  hands 
were  beautifully  painted,  the  flesh  being  firm  and  the 
colour  true.  The  right  hand,  partly  resting  on  a 
stand,  was  half  closed  over  a  few  flowers,  while  the 
left  was  held  palm  out  and  half  extended,  as  if 
in  explanation.  The  background  was  quite  dark, 
though  a  church  spire  could  be  distinguished  at  one 
side,  and  a  festoon  of  ivy  on  the  other. 

"  A  fine  piece  of  colour,  and  the  face  seems 
strangely  familiar,"  said  father,  adjusting  his 
"  nearby  "  glasses.  "  What  do  they  call  him  ?  " 


i88  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

" '  A  Gentleman  in  a  White  Wig,'  "  I  replied,  on  re- 
ferring to  the  catalogue  where  half  a  dozen  pictures 
and  some  prints  were  listed  with  the  books. 

"  A  true  though  certainly  not  very  enlightening 
title,"  mused  father,  still  looking  at  the  face  with 
narrowed  eyes.  "  Barbara,  I  believe  this  is  no  less 
than  a  portrait  of  Linnaeus.  Those  are  not  decora- 
tive flowers,  but  botanical  specimens,  a  wild  rose 
and  a  spray  of  agrimony,  toward  which  he  is  calling 
attention  with  his  outstretched  hand,  possibly  in 
lecturing.  That  steeple  is  of  the  church  in  whose 
manse  garden  he  played  when  a  boy.  I'll  not  say 
that  it  is  an  original  painting,  but  probably  a  copy 
of  some  museum  picture  abroad,  of  which  there  may 
be  fifty  others  floating  about  unrecognized.  Still  it 
is  good,  and  bears  a  certain  resemblance  to  prints  that 
I  have  seen,  and  I've  a  mind  to  buy  it." 

"  Do,  for  I  am  simply  in  love  with  it,"  I  assented, 
"and  Aunt  Lot  doesn't  squirm  so  much  about  pic- 
tures as  over  books.  But  I  won't  believe  it's  a 
copy.  The  brush  marks  are  free  and  without  a 
draggle  or  stumble.  Who  knows  but  it  is  a  master- 
piece gone  astray  ?  At  any  rate,  we  will  christen  it 
'  Linnaeus '  at  once,  and  make  a  shrine  for  it  over 
your  study  mantel,  and  always  keep  wild  flowers 
under  it." 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  189 

"  First  we  must  buy  it,  Bab  the  impetuous,'1 
laughed  father,  "  and  some  one  may  realize  its  beauty 
and  easily  outbid  us,  for  we  have  been  a  week  in 
town,  this  is  the  fourth  day  of  the  sale,  and  my  purse 
is  pretty  thoroughly  purged." 

But  we  bought  it,  there  being  only  two  other 
'  competitors,  one  a  man  of  the  buy-anything-cheap 
type,  and  the  other  a  real  lady  collecting  ancestors, 
who  would  doubtless  have  outbid  us  if  her  daughter 
had  not  checked  her  audibly  by  saying,  "  Don't,  ma ; 
you  know  we  agreed  to  stick  to  the  military  line," 
and  so  Linnaeus,  was  knocked  down  to  us  for  the 
small  sum  of  twenty  dollars,  when,  as  the  auc- 
tioneer patronizingly  assured  us,  "  The  frame  alone 
is  quite  worth  the  money,  being  hand-carved  Dutch 
oak ! " 

Now  "  Linnaeus "  has  fitly  come  to  preside  over 
our  garden  of  books,  and  I  still  believe  that  he  is 
all  my  fancy  imagined,  and  that  one  day  he  will 
be  proved  his  real  self,  and  it  will  be  explained 
how  he  came  to  be  travelling  incog,  as  the  "Gen- 
tleman with  the  White  Wig." 


Toward  four  o'clock  the  storm  lightened,  but  it 
was   too   late   for    road    breaking.     Then   the  wind 


IQO  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

blew  again,  and  more  snow  and  nightfall  came  to- 
gether. Two  hearth-fires  glowed,  and  father  sat  in 
his  study  and  looked  contentedly  across  the  hall, 
silent  save  for  a  soliloquy  on  the  contrariety  of 
new-fangled  notions  when,  after  running  his  paper 
knife  in  a  leisurely  way  as  usual  through  the  top 
pages  of  a  magazine,  he  began  to  read  and  found 
the  leaves  were  joined  at  the  bottom. 

8  P.  M.  Evan  has  been  to  the  barn  with  Tim, 
and  reports  the  sky  clear  and  the  stars  bright,  and 
promises  that  in  the  morning  I  shall  ride  on  the 
snow  plough  that  breaks  the  first  road. 

A  crude  implement  this  snow  plough,  merely  a  tri- 
angle of  timber  with  a  platform  set  midway,  the 
horse  being  fastened  by  a  whiffle-tree  to  one  of 
the  points.  Ah,  but  I  remember  the  excitement  of 
it  all,  the  buffeting  and  breaking  the  way  through 
the  trackless  whiteness,  and  even  the  half-acid 
taste  of  the  crisp  snow  I  ate  to  quench  my  thirst. 
My  face  tingles  already  at  the  thought  of  it. 

Lark  and  Bluff,  however,  were  not  happy.  First 
they  stretched  before  one  fire,  then  the  other,  and 
finally  took  up  their  places  in  the  hall,  Bluff  facing 
one  way,  and  Lark  the  other,  so  that  they  could 
see  both  halves  of  the  family  and  nothing  might 
escape  them;  and  I,  too,  sitting  in  the  ingle  nook, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  191 

can  compass  my  two  lovers  with  a  single  glance  as 
I  write  half  by  firelight. 

Dear  garden  of  outdoors,  I  love  you  best !  but  as 
you  vanish,  then  the  door  of  the  garden  of  books 
opens  to  me  with  its  main  roads,  bypaths,  and  end- 
less vistas,  and  I  also  rejoice  at  this.  Do  you  realize, 
you  happy,  happy  Barbara,  what  it  is  to  have  both 
gardens  and  both  lovers? 


XI 

THE  TERRIBLE  TEMPTATION 

Febmary  10.  Why  is  it  that  so  many  people  think 
that  charity  consists  in  giving  away  merely  what 
they  cannot  use  instead  of  the  article  the  recipient 
needs  ?  For  it  often  seems  to  me  that  in  the  eyes  of 
the  multitude,  it  is  not  until  a  thing  becomes  useless 
that  they  think  of  passing  it  on. 

This  miscellaneous  unloading  of  trash  upon  the 
hospital  reached  such  a  pass  at  Christmas  time  that 
the  managers,  many  of  whom  were  leaving  to  winter 
in  the  city,  appointed  a  Committee  of  One  with 
Power,  to  handle  the  problem.  I  am  It,  and  my 
name  is  Committee  for  the  Reception  of  Donations 
Other  than  Money,  —  a  title  as  long  as  the  duties  are 
various. 

The  old  way  had  been  to  have  the  gifts  sent  to  the 
Superintendent's  office,  thence  being  distributed  at  his 
discretion,  or  in  the  case  of  books,  pictures  etc.,  often- 
times to  allow  visitors  themselves  to  do  the  giving. 

Murmurs  of  the  lack  of  tact  displayed  had  often 
192 


GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     193 

reached  father,  but  it  was  only  recently  that  the 
extent  of  the  abuse  first  appealed  to  me. 

I  was  arranging  some  Christmas  greens  in  the 
men's  surgical  ward,  when  a  poor  fellow,  an  engi- 
neer who  had  lost  both  legs  through  a  railway  col- 
lision, called  me  and  said  with  grave  face  but  keen 
humour  twinkling  in  his  hollow  eyes :  — 

"  Ma'am,  isn't  it  funny  how  some  well-meanin' 
folks  like  to  grind  a  fellow  when  he's  down,"  and  he 
pointed  to  a  card  hanging  on  the  opposite  wall,  and 
to  a  book  on  the  floor  beside  the  cot.  The  picture 
was'  a  flaming  illuminated  text  hung  by  a  ribbon. 
It  read,  "  Arise,  take  up  thy  bed  and  walk !  "  The 
book  was  a  sensational  account  of  railway  acci- 
dents ! 

The  grim  humour  of  the  combination  struck  us 
both,  and  we  laughed  over  it  heartily  as  I  confis- 
cated book  and  text,  the  man  telling  father  after- 
ward that  the  cheer  of  the  sympathetic  laugh  was 
the  first  thing  that  encouraged  him  to  get  well. 

I  bore  the  articles  to  the  superintendent's  office 
and  there  listened  to  a  tale  from  his  wife  that  amazed 
me.  Not  only  were  useless  articles  of  furniture  and 
clothing  sent  almost  daily  for  which  receipts  and 
official  thanks  were  expected,  but  unsuitable  food 
arrived  as  well,  —  skim  milk  on  the  turn,  soggy 
o 


194  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

potatoes,  "  jellies "  that  from  stinginess  with  the 
sugar  declined  to  jell,  the  last  donation  of  all  being 
a  case  of  fermented  fruits  from  the  Lady  of  the 
Bluffs.  Fruit  kept  so  long  that  the  tin  cans  had 
popped  at  both  ends !  together  with  some  equally 
suspicious  tins  of  deviled  ham !  This  gift  was 
accompanied  by  a  violet-scented  note  saying,  "  If 
the  fruit,  a  superior  California  grade,  and  quite 
expensive,  is  nicely  and  thoroughly  cooked,  and  more 
sugar  added,  it  will  be  a  refreshing  treat  to  our  dear 
convalescents."  Of  course  such  food  was  destroyed 
and  never  given  to  the  patients,  but  the  Village  Liar 
via  the  Emporium  had  started  the  tale  that  the 
Superintendent's  family  "  fattened  on  the  delica- 
cies sent  to  the  sick  !  "  Shades  of  ptomaine  poison  ! 
Was  it  not  time  to  appoint  a  Committee  of  One 
with  Power  ? 

I  have  established  a  food  quarantine  in  a  little 
room  off  the  hospital  kitchen,  and  nothing  unsuit- 
able is  allowed  even  to  be  received ;  while  all  other 
articles  are  collected  in  a  loft  where  once  a  week  I 
go  to  inspect  and  sort  them,  the  useless  things  being 
left  to  accumulate.  They  will  be  scattered  annually 
by  a  well-advertised  "  rummage  sale,"  to  which,  if  I 
know  human  nature,  people  will  flock  in  order  to 
see  if  they  will  recognize  any  of  their  neighbours' 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  195 

goods.  The  proceeds  will  of  course  belong  to  the 
hospital. 

The  Village  Liar  will  doubtless  have  plenty  to  say 
upon  the  subject.  She  sent  fermented  cabbages 
that  were  rejected  yesterday.  The  Emporium  must 
also  be  already  bursting  with  news ;  but  as  the  Em- 
porium is  treated  by  a  natural  herb  doctor  and  the 
Village  Liar  is  a  Christian  Scientist,  I  do  not  have 
to  come  in  contact  with  them  either  for  professional 
or  social  reasons. 

These  memoranda  may  seem  out  of  place  in  my 
Garden  Boke,  but  then,  gardening  isn't  all  earth, 
the  growing  of  flowers,  and  the  crushing  of  weeds; 
it  is  the  developing  of  the  soul  and  the  body 
as  well.  As  there  are  human  beings  whose  very 
presence  seems  to  bring  God  nearer,  so  there  are 
others  who  by  their  nothingness  send  us  the  more 
gladly  back  to  the  companionship  of  the  beasts 
and  flowers  of  the  field.  Surely  there  is  no  greater 
garden  for  human-nature  study  than  the  flotsam 

and  jetsam  of  the  hospital. 

****** 

Two  months  of  winter  gone  already !  White 
winter  is  never  dreary,  for  the  trees  are  wreathed 
with  snow  flowers  that  bloom  by  day  and  night. 
On  the  shelf  around  the  bay  window  of  the  den 


196  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

where  I  am  sitting,  freezias,  Roman  hyacinths,  pink 
and  yellow  oxalis,  and  cyclamen  are  in  bloom,  the 
delicate  colour  being  enhanced  by  half  a  dozen 
medium-sized  plants  of  the  ubiquitous  Boston  fern 
(Nephrolepsis  Bostoniensis).  This  fern  should  be 
divided  every  spring  and  not  allowed  to  grow  too 
large,  as  the  pots  are  then  heavy  to  handle,  and 
the  fronds  are  less  vigorous  and  perfect  than  with 
the  smaller  plants. 

Now  that  we  have  this  fern,  there  is  no  excuse 
for  keeping  the  rubber  plant,  that  abomination  of 
stationary  motion  that  would  be  quite  as  satisfac- 
tory if  made  out  of  zinc  and  painted. 

I  returned  home  too  late  to  prepare  anything 
except  bulbs  for  my  window  garden  this  season, 
for  pot  plants  bought  of  a  florist  and  brought 
from  greenhouse  heat  to  the  conditions  of  a  living 
room  soon  grow  feeble,  and  seldom  adapt  them- 
selves to  the  new  condition.  From  outdoors  in  is 
quite  change  enough  to  be  overcome. 

After  all,  I  am  quite  sure  that  bulbs  are  by  far 
the  most  satisfactory  things  for  window  culture. 
They  may  be  brought  from  the  frames  in  succes- 
sion, and  removed  again  to  be  dried  off  when  out 
of  flower,  and  what  in  nature  is  more  pitiful  than 
a  pinched  and  starving  house,  plant? — nothing 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  197 

except  the  caged  wild  bird  that,  grown  too  feeble 
even  to  struggle,  sits  crouching  on  the  perch,  and 
with  dimming  eyes  looks  through  the  bars  toward 
the  sky. 

I  have  led  quite  a  virtuous  and  commendable 
existence  these  past  months ;  in  fact,  ever  since 
the  great  storm  quenched,  for  the  time  being  at 
least,  the  outward  manifestation  of  my  gardening 
passion  and  forced  me  indoors,  face  to  face  with 
the  domestic  occupations  of  a  commuter's  wife  in 
a  snowy  winter.  Now  we  are  pruning  the  fruit 
trees  by  degrees,  and  the  days  are  lengthening. 
Thirty  more  of  them  will  bring  hotbed  making,  and 
the  garden  is  again  beginning  to  lure  me  in 
thought.  I've  devoted  a  fair  share  of  my  days  to 
my  fellow-beings  and  the  before-mentioned  scan- 
ning of  hospital  donations.  I've  made  personally 
and  carefully  certain  concoctions  that  the  sick  but 
respectable  poor,  with  traditions  and  pasts,  associ- 
ate with  a  self-respecting  convalescence,  and  have 
taken  my  wares  to  the  hospital  for  special  cases. 
It  has  always  been  one  of  my  pet  amusements  to 
watch  people  eat  the  things  they  enjoy,  from  chil- 
dren drooling  over  a  lump  of  sugar  upward. 
Mouths  have  so  many  different  expressions;  even 
Bluff's  lips  look  dry  and  contracted  when  his  meal 


198  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

is  of  dog  biscuits,  and  totally  different  from  the 
abandon  with  which  they  linger  over  the  leavings 
of  kidney  stew. 

It  is  well  worth  a  little  effort  to  see  parched, 
fevered  lips  moisten  with  expectancy  when  I  take 
from  my  "hospital  basket"  the  glass  plate  of 
lemon  jelly  or  glac^ed  orange,  seeded  and  parted 
in  its  natural  divisions,  sprinkled  with  sugar  and 
frozen.  The  jelly,  I  know,  would  not  be  as  pala- 
table from  a  thick  hospital  saucer. 

True,  modern  science  questions  the  nutritiveness 
of  many  "sick-room  messes"  of  our  grandmother's 
day.  Yet  father  thinks  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
satisfying  the  mental  side  of  an  invalid's  appetite, 
which  some  of  the  young  doctors,  learned  in  every- 
thing except  the  common-sense  of  experience,  do 
not  understand.  For  surely  there  are  some  nerv- 
ous, homesick  conditions,  where  a  little  home-made 
apple  sauce  is  more  reviving  than  a  pint  of  correct 
and  unpalatable  peptonoids. 

Besides  this  work,  which  I  really  like  next  best 
to  sitting  in  the  den  with  Evan,  or  gardening,  I've 
done  a  little  sewing  in  spite  of  my  prejudice,  and 
absolutely  made  holders  for  the  kitchen,  neat  car- 
pet cookies  covered  with  ticking,  binding  them  prop- 
erly about  the  edges  with  turkey  red  after  Aunt 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  199 

Lot's  habit,  instead  of  hobgobbling  them  with  shoe 
thread  as  my  Familiar  Spirit  suggested.  By  the 
way,  this  "  Familiar "  is  not  of  the  guardian  angel 
tribe,  for  it  is  frequently  a  suggester  of  question- 
able short  cuts  and  of  shifting  purpose,  invariably 
opposing  me  in  argument. 

I  have  given  the  village  tea,  which  passed  off  in 
a  cloud  of  glory  composed  of  hot  oysters,  chicken 
salad,  chocolate  with  whipped  cream  a-top,  sand- 
wiches, biscuit  glac6,  and  pistache  cake,  instead  of 
the  usual  local  sop  of  salty  ice-cream  and  adaman- 
tine chocolate  cake. 

That  collation  was  an  inspiration  of  Evan's.  I 
said,  having  argued  fore  and  aft  about  it  with  my 
Familiar  for  two  months,  — 

"  I  must  have  this  tea  as  a  matter  of  course,  for, 
you  know,  having  no  reception  at  the  time  of  our 
wedding,  and  going  away  so  soon,  they  scarcely 
realize  us  as  a  unit." 

"  Which  you  are  quite  determined  that  they  shall 
do,  having  made  up  your  mind  to  that  effect, 
and  notified  me  long  ago,"  said  Evan,  laughing. 
"  Do  you  know,  Barbara,  there  have  been  times 
when  I've  been  afraid  that  you  were  not  quite 
feminine  enough  to  be  wholly  comfortable  in  your 
surroundings,  but  I  shall  worry  no  longer ! " 


200  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

"  What  if  I  do  wish  to  show  you  to  all  the  peo- 
ple that  have  known  me  ever  since  I  was  a  kitten, 
even  if  some  of  them  are — well  —  original!  Surely 
there  is  nothing  strange  in  that." 

Then  I,  too,  was  forced  to  laugh  at  the  complete 
way  in  which  I  had  committed  myself. 

"  We  will  allow  a  double  motive,  then,  if  you  wish, 
but  doing  so  is  a  compliment  to  you,  for  which  you 
must  pay  by  telling  me  how  to  entertain  them.  Of 
course  they  will  not  come  and  go  as  people  do  in 
the  city  when  bidden  to  tea  at  four,  but  arrive  at 
the  beginning  and  stay  for  two  hours.  Even  your 
charms,  great  as  they  are,  will  hardly  withstand 
such  wear  and  tear.  Shall  we  have  some  one  to 
recite,  a  lecture  on  foreign  missions  illustrated  by 
magic  lantern  slides  of  the  India  famine  and  pious 
Chinese,  or  will  a  palmist  and  some  coon  songs 
do?" 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other,"  Evan  answered  em- 
phatically. "  Put  all  your  strength  into  a  substantial 
hot  collation,  order  it  from  town,  but  do  not  mention 
the  fact.  Food  bought  ready  made  suggests  hash  or 
something  warmed  over,  as  well  as  a  shirking  of 
trouble  to  the  simple  rural  minds  of  all  countries. 
Having  done  this,  give  them  plenty  of  time  to  talk, 
and  your  succes«  is  assured." 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  201 

Perfectly  true.  On  the  appointed  day  Evan  came 
home  a  little  after  four,  donned  his  newest  frock 
coat,  his  most  deeply  creased  trousers,  and  an  ob- 
streperous tie,  and  pervaded  the  rooms  smiling,  and 
at  intervals  cheerfully  partaking  of  cake  which  he 
never  eats,  and  ice-cream,  which  always  gives  him  a 
pain  in  his  nose.  Father  wafted  uneasily  about,  wear- 
ing his  genial  expression,  but  avoided  emphatic  ex- 
pression of  opinion  upon  any  subject. 

The  good  things  disappeared  rapidly,  and  at  one 
time  I  feared  a  famine,  but  I  had  ordered  in  accordance 
with  the  number  invited,  and  not  on  the  two-thirds  prin- 
ciple of  the  society  which  suffers  from  social  surfeit. 

The  cream  pistache  cake  was  the  belle  of  the  ball. 
It  was  eyed  dubiously  at  first,  but  every  one  took  a 
second  piece,  and  Mrs.  Haddock  from  Centreville,  dear 
soul,  who  had  absolutely  hired  a  livery  team  for  the 
ten-mile  drive,  an  unheard-of  extravagance,  took  a 
third  piece,  which  she  dexterously  concealed  in  her 
large  squirrel  muff,  whispering  to  a  neighbour  :  — 

"  That  mustache  cake  beats  me !  It  just  creams  in 
your  mouth  without  chewin',  though  the  fillin'  does 
appear  to  be  of  green  peanuts,  and  the  icin'  beat  up 
with  spinach.  I  feel  called  to  take  a  piece  home  to 
see  what  my  son's  wife  makes  of  it.  And  do  you 
know,"  subduing  her  voice  still  further,  "  I'd  power- 


202  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

ful  like  to  ask  what  it's  named  for,  but  I  can't  quite 
fetch  myself  to.  One  thing's  certain,  that's  a  proper 
smart  woman  help  of  Evan's  that  they  fetched  over, 
if  she  is  English.  Lot,  she  never  made  such  cake, 
let  alone  bein'  so  liberal  with  her  victuals." 

The  fame  of  the  pistache  cake  spread. 

I  was  called  upon  to  furnish  the  recipe,  which  was 
easily  obtained,  but  called  for  so  many  ingredients 
and  such  skill  in  making  that  it  impressed  them  as  a 
species  of  culinary  mathematics.  It  was  decided  by 
the  Emporium  that  we  were  really  well  to  do,  and 
had  not  come  to  live  at  home  because  Evan  was 
poor,  that  he  had  no  intention  of  peddling  vege- 
tables, but  owned  a  whole  block  of  granite  stores  in 
the  city,  and  merely  went  to  town  to  collect  his 
rents. 

Upon  such  a  trifle  as  the  making  and  liberal 
distribution  of  cake  does  country  reputation  often 
hang,  while  in  the  city  diamond  stomachers,  an 
opera  box,  a  yacht,  or  an  automobile  would  not 
reflect  half  so  much  glory. 

After  the  tea  was  quite  over,  father  and  Evan 
disappeared  together,  and  I  found  them  sitting  at 
the  pantry  table  before  a  deliciously  broiled  porter- 
house steak  and  dish  of  crisp  potatoes,  which  Martha 
Corkle  herself  was  serving.  As  I  gave  her  a  glance 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  203 

in  which  question  and  approval  blended,  she  said  by 
way  of  explanation,  born  of  the  proper  English 
regard  of  the  man's  rights  in  his  home,  in  which,  by 
the  way,  there  was  no  tone  of  apology,  rather  of  in- 
struction, — 

"The  gentlemen  needs  something  hearty,  Mrs. 
Evan.  Company  food  and  sweets  is  most  destroying 
to  their  habits.  In  the  old  days  at  such  times  I 
always  served  the  master  a  steak  in  my  sitting  room 
with  my  own  hands,  I  bein'  housekeeper  then,  Mrs. 
Evan." 

Good  woman  !  I  think  if  the  habits  of  our  American 
men  were  not  so  frequently  "destroyed"  by  haste  and 
by  company  food,  we  should  be  better  off.  Thank  you, 
Martha  Corkle.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  learn  of  you. 

I  should  be  restless  or  at  least  tired  and  fidgety 
after  these  months  of  indoor  life  and  repression,  but 
I'm  not.  However,  indoor  life  in  the  country  is  only 
a  figure  of  speech  to  me  at  any  season,  save  in  the 
evening;  and  I've  been  so  well  that  I've  not  even 
had  the  excuse  of  a  snuffle  cold  to  keep  me  in  bed  a 
single  dark,  sleepy  morning.  Now  I  feel,  however, 
that  the  grip  of  civilization  is  loosening,  and  since 
morning  I've  been  confronted  and  surrounded  by  a 
Terrible  Temptation,  one  of  the  greatest  that  besets 
the  commuter's  wife  on  gardening  bent.  All  day  it 


204  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

has  been  beside  me.  I  have  fought  it  bravely  until 
various  tasks  were  done;  for  when  I  once  yield,  I 
shall  be  absorbed  and  no  longer  mistress  of  myself. 
Now  there  is  a  comfortable  hour  before  dinner; 
Delia,  another  log  for  the  fire,  the  lamp  with  the 
pale  yellow  shade,  the  deepest  chair !  I  abandon 
myself  and  draw  the  Terrible  Temptation  to  me, — 
the  seed  catalogues  that  Evan  has  collected  at  the 
office  and  then  sent  in  a  bunch  by  the  morning 
mail! 

I  sort  them  over,  selecting  four,  of  which  all  the 
others  are  but  understudies,  and  straightway  the 
hope  of  spring  fills  my  heart  and  I  am  once  more 
in  the  land  of  expectancy. 


February  n  (evening).  Like  the  pnident  and 
methodical  Plymouth  Rock  hens  who  may  be  seen 
going  in  procession  to  the  seclusion  of  their  house  at 
a  stated  hour  every  evening,  the  time  being  regulated 
the  year  round  by  sunset,  so  twilight  in  winter  invari- 
ably sees  me  at  home,  not  dozing,  but  drawing  my 
keenest  mental  stimulus  from  father  and  Evan ;  for 
as  they  spend  their  days  in  active  contact  with  their 
fellow-men,  their  evening  desire  is  of  peace. 

Many  of  the  troubles  of  country  living  would  dis- 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  205 

appear  if  people  would  only  cease  dragging  in  city 
hours  and  conventionalities,  or  I  might  even  say  the 
hours  and  conventionalities  of  other  climates  and 
countries. 

In  England,  city  or  country,  it  is  the  universal 
custom  to  wear  low  bodices  to  even  informal  dinners, 
but  that  does  not  make  it  a  suitable  habit  to  intro- 
duce amid  New  England  rigours.  It  is  sheer  folly, 
as  well  as  the  custom  of  half-past  seven  or  eight 
o'clock  dinner  in  houses  where  the  same  maids,  or 
often  a  single  maid,  must  be  ready  to  prepare  and 
serve  breakfast  at  seven  or  half-past  the  next  morn- 
ing. It  is  things  like  these  that  make  the  commuter's 
servants  a  floating  population,  and  the  employers 
themselves  the  butt  of  comic  papers. 

Hereabout  a  few  of  the  summer  people  have  tried 
to  set  an  electric  pace  in  everything,  but  long  ago 
father  and  I  agreed  that  we  should  keep  to  simple 
ways;  when  I  dined  from  home  or  others  came  to 
us,  !  might  wear  the  gayest,  brightest  gown  I  could 
concoct,  but  never  bare  my  shoulders.  For  we  out 
of  town  women  of  the  upper  middle  class,  com- 
muters' wives  especially,  do  not  go  often  enough 
to  such  festivities  to  acclimate  ourselves  to  changes 
from  flannels  to  nothing,  or  to  feel  at  home  with 
topless  garments,  and  they  are  therefore  among  us 


206  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

an  assumption, — a  vulgarity.  Oh,  the  flaunting  of 
bare  bones  and  leaf  lard  that  father  and  I  have  seen 
in  the  past  when  entertained  by  some  of  his  "summer 
resident "  patients,  whose  culinary  pretentions,  by  the 
way,  were  very  slight.  None  of  these,  however,  had 
the  peculiar  quality  of  flesh  possessed  by  the  "  turtles," 
a  species  of  Englishwoman  that  Evan  and  I  constantly 
met  and  so  classified  —  age  between  fifty  and  seventy, 
never  the  mother  of  sons,  but  of  daughters,  only 
unmarried  daughters,  who  evidently  made  their  own 
clothes  with  the  neck  openings  all  of  the  same  meas- 
ure, irrespective  of  under  or  over  development. 

I've  often  wished  when  at  some  of  the  "  profes- 
sional necessity  "  dinner  parties,  that  less  meat  on 
the  hoof  had  been  exhibited  and  more  had  been 
cooked  and  served  at  table,  instead  of  the  eight 
courses  of  spinklets  that  frequently  separated  the 
very  tough  and  altogether-too-large-to-be-eaten-raw 
clams  from  the  half  cold,  disintegrated  coffee ;  but 
such  are  the  risks  of  society,  and  so  we  learned  to 
smile  and  say  nothing ;  but  when  we  came  home,  we 
always  had  a  supper  of  honest  roast  beef  sandwiches 
and  —  Bass's  ale.  It  does  sound  vulgar,  but  it's  so 
comforting,  and  ale  is  quite  safe  when  one  is  rather 
tall,  slender,  and  takes  plenty  of  exercise. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  207 

Alack!  the  divergences  in  my  Garden  Boke  are 
many,  but  this  one  explains  why  I  can  now  conscien- 
tiously give  way  to  the  Terrible  Temptation ;  for  to 
keep  Evan  and  the  maids  in  good  condition,  I  have 
foresworn  evening  visiting  for  the  cold  months,  and 
so  this  evening  is  quite  my  own. 

February  u.  Last  night  I  attempted  nothing 
in  the  way  of  list  making ;  I  simply  explored  my  four 
catalogues. 

One  was  a  dainty  leaflet  from  Vermont,  chiefly 
exploiting  hardy  and  native  plants  for  the  border, 
wild  and  bog  garden.  Bog  Garden !  I've  an  idea 
that  the  wet  spot  around  the  spring  hole  by  the  cow- 
path  in  the  wood  lot  would  make  an  enchanting 
boggery.  The  soil  ranges  from  water  covered 
through  wet  to  merely  damp,  and  could  be  easily 
shaped,  and  the  tussock  grass  grubbed  out.  Besides, 
I  see  that  this  catalogue  lists  a  great  many  plants  of 
wet  ground  that  used  to  grow  wild  here,  and  that  we 
can  dig  up  free  of  cost. 

The  next  catalogue  is  from  northern  New  York, 
of  fruits,  shade  trees,  shrubs,  and  roses.  I  will  put 
this  aside,  with  a  sigh,  however,  for  we  have  agreed 
not  to  buy  any  more  shrubs  and  roses  until  falL  when 
we  shall  be  quite  sure  where  we  wish  to  plant  them 

The  third  is  a  substantial  and   conservative   vol- 


20S  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

ume  devoted  to  seeds  and  a  few  well-tested  bulbs 
and  roots.  My  grandfather  bought  his  seeds  from 
this  firm,  and  from  this  I  shall  make  my  final  list 
and  send  my  order;  and  yet  I  turned  almost  fever- 
ishly to  the  fourth,  the  catalogue  of  adjectives  and 
gay  lithographs,  upon  whose  cover  is  pictured  a 
young  and  lovely  lady  (it  would  seem  lacking  in 
gentility  to  call  her  a  woman).  With  her  left  hand  she 
holds  up  her  lace  robe,  showing  high-heeled  slippers, 
with  the  other  she  pushes  an  improved  mowing 
machine,  with  which  she  has  just  completed  cut- 
ting the  grass  on  a  two-acre  lawn,  though  it  is 
apparently  early  morning.  In  the  far  background 
is  a  bed  of  roses,  each  flower  the  size  of  the  lady's 
head ;  and  from  the  vegetable  garden,  which  is  in 
plain  sight,  the  husband,  clad  in  a  dress  coat  and 
a  four-in-hand  tie,  is  taking  in  some  strawberries  of 
large  size  for  breakfast,  apparently  twelve  to  the 
barrow  in  which  he  is  wheeling  them. 

In  spite  of  knowing  that  this  is  a  Yellow  Journal 
of  Horticulture,  I  fold  back  the  cover  and  con- 
tinue the  walk  through  a  midsummer  night's  dream 
of  improbabilities, — violets  the  size  of  a  silver 
dollar,  pansies  as  big  as  saucers  frilled  like  a 
skirt  dancer's  robe,  dwarf  nasturtiums  all  flowers 
and  no  leaves,  self-supporting  sweet  peas,  and  worse 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  209 

yet,  a  well-known  weed  with  a  showy  orange-red 
flower,  hawkweed  or  devil's  paintbrush,  is  recklessly 
praised.  The  same  being  a  perfect  curse  to  agriculture 
in  the  grass  region  is  offered  as  a  floral  novelty,  and 
so  on  until,  passing  from  flower  to  vegetable  garden, 
a  tomato  appears  that  requires  a  folded  twelve-inch 
plate  to  picture  it,  "  three-quarters  life  size  " ! 

I  still  read  on.  The  pictures  are  "  all  from 
life,"  taken  at  the  seed-testing  ground.  Ah,  yes,  but 
please  realize,  Madam  Commuter,  that  the  seed-test- 
ing ground  is  not  your  garden,  that  the  remarks 
do  not  apply  to  you,  and  that  it  is  easy  to  enlarge 
photographs.  Be  thankful  also  that  it  is  not  your 
garden ;  for  you  would  become  blind  with  the  glare 
of  colour,  and  gardening  would  be  such  a  mechani- 
cal certainty  that  there  would  be  no  pleasure  in  it. 

I  know  all  this  by  bitter  experience  in  the 
days  when  plant  money  was  tight.  I  have  eaten 
the  wild  apple,  and  yet  return  to  the  bitter  fruit. 
I  have  been  burned,  and  yet  poke  the  fire  with 
my  fingers.  I  know  that  the  coloured  flower  packets 
at  ten  cents  contain  only  as  many  seeds  as  the 
plain  ones  of  the  conservative  old  firm  do  at  five 
cents,  yet  I  reach  for  my  pad  and  pencil,  and  find 
myself  wondering  if  possibly  the  Perpetual  Bloom- 
ing Pekin  Perfection  Poppy  offered,  may  not 


210  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

bloom  for  five  months  instead  of,  as  usual,  shrivel- 
ling and  disappearing  after  a  fortnight's  tropic 
glowing  that  necessitates  sowing  in  succession. 

No,  the  gambling  spirit  is  strong  in  all  agricul- 
turalists, and  especially  so  in  the  commuter's  wife, 
when  the  vernal  equinox  approaches,  and  surely 
Wall  Street  itself  is  not  possessed  of  more  wiles  than 
the  Seed  Catalogue.  Even  the  offerings  of  the  Plant 
Catalogue  are  a  government  bond  by  comparison. 
You  buy  your  plant  and  at  least  it  is  tangible,  but 
the  seeds  are  promissory  notes  which  nature  upon 
occasion  does  not  hesitate  to  repudiate.  Still  the 
fascination  remains,  a  charm  born  of  optimistic 
hope,  of  the  same  sort  as  is  exercised  by  the 
patent  medicine,  flesh-reducing,  wrinkle-destroy- 
ing, and  household  washing-machine-without-work 
advertisements. 

February  15  (evening).  St.  Valentine's  Day.  No 
birds  mating  as  yet  but  English  sparrows,  which 
never  seem  to  be  otherwise.  It  was  my  painful 
duty  to  have  three  couples  of  them  evicted  from  the 
martins'  house  this  morning. 

Evan  has  just  brought  me  a  box  of  roses  and  car- 
nations from  the  city.  The  roses  are  all  of  the 
fragrant  and  lovable  kind,  and  the  carnations  are 
great  golden  beauties  with  a  rosy  fringe.  They  made 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  211 

a  fine  decoration  for  the  dinner  table,  as  my  little 
wild  fernery  is  fading,  and  I  must  refill  it  at  last  with 
some  of  my  yellow  tulips.  I  hope  never  to  be  too 
poor  to  have  something  flowery  on  the  table ;  for  eat 
as  daintily  as  we  may,  it  is  a  very  physical  employ- 
ment, and  flowers  do  much  to  divert  our  minds  at 
least,  from  foodiness.  Next  to  the  dining  table,  the 
stand  in  the  hall  is  my  favourite  place  for  a  bouquet 
or  a  plant  in  bloom.  Here  every  one  can  enjoy  their 
beauty  —  the  patients  bound  for  father's  office,  to 
whom  the  visit  should  be  made  as  cheerful  as  possi- 
ble ;  and  the  maids  about  their  work  as  well  as 
we  ourselves  are  cheered  even  though  uncon- 
sciously. 

Evan  says  when  I  am  ready  to  make  my  bog 
garden,  which  if  I  follow  his  advice  will  not  be 
this  spring,  I  had  better  buy  my  plants  instead  of 
despoiling  our  own  streams  and  ponds  of  them.  Also 
that  it  will  be  quite  as  cheap  if  I  credit  the  price  of 
the  necessary  labour  and  wear  and  tear  against  them. 
As  usual  he  is  right,  I  think,  for  I  remember  several 
years  ago  I  tried  to  dig  some  rose  mallows  by  the 
river  several  miles  away.  I  broke  my  trowel  and 
ruined  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  the  next  day  when  Tim 
went  for  the  mallows  he  brought  the  clump  back  in  a 
fine  block  of  peat ;  but  unfortunately  it  held  only  the 


212  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

stems,  the  roots  being  somewhere  between  here 
and  China,  so  that  it  was  a  decided  case  of  Plant 
Labour  Lost ! 

It  is  always  nice  to  have  something  ahead  of  one, 
so  I'm  putting  the  bog  garden  idea  away  in  my 
desk,  catalogue  and  all,  together  with  that  of  the 
shrubs  and  roses.  That  is  to  say,  I'm  only  ordering 
six  crimson  ramblers  and  fifty  summer-blooming  roses 
for  the  sun  garden,  such  as  La  France,  Perle, 
Augusta  Victoria,  Malmaison,  Coquette  de  Lyon, 
Duchess  of  Edinburgh,  Souvenir  d'un  Ami,  Sunset, 
and  Bride.  These  will  give  Evan  a  bud  for  his  but- 
tonhole after  the  June  roses  have  gone  and  before 
the  Margaret  carnations  grown  from  seed  come  in 
bloom. 

I'm  also  ordering  a  dozen  or  so  packets  of  seeds 
from  the  "  Yellow  Journal"  catalogue,  merely  to  settle 
my  mind  and  prove  that  they  are  humbugs.  I  now 
have  before  me  the  catalogue  of  my  ancestor's  firm 
that  has  weathered  time  and  sensation;  so  once 
again  heredity  comes  to  my  aid. 

This  catalogue  I  have  read  and  reread  many  times 
during  the  past  five  days,  and  I'm  quite  surprised  to 
find,  among  the  hundreds  of  species  of  flower  seeds 
it  offers,  how  comparatively  few  are  needed  for  the 
making  of  my  garden,  or  would  be  missed  by  any  but 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  213 

the  specialist  or  dealer  who  wishes  to  make  a  numer- 
ous showing,  if  they  should  entirely  disappear  from 
the  market.  With  the  vegetables  we  discovered  this 
years  ago,  and  acquired  great  caution  in  trying  new 
varieties.  Evan  also  says  that  it  is  much  the  same 
with  the  plants,  trees,  and  shrubs  used  in  producing 
effects  in  everyday  landscape  architecture. 

Of  course  all  plants  are  suitable  where  they  are 
native  born,  many  are  adaptable  to  new  conditions, 
and  many  others  are  lovely,  but  of  such  a  fleeting 
quality  of  bloom  that  they  are  quite  out  of  place  in 
a  garden  where  space  is  in  any  way  limited,  so  that 
in  spite  of  the  trivial  cost  of  the  seed,  they  are  an 
extravagance  because  of  the  small  yield  of  satisfac- 
tion in  proportion  to  the  soil  they  cover. 

Most  of  these  evanescent  flowers  flock  under  the 
title  of  annuals ;  and  though  many  may  yield  masses 
of  gorgeous  colour  in  July  and  August,  they  have 
little  or  no  part  in  the  bloom  of  the  earlier  and  later 
season. 

Last  night,  after  I  had  revised  my  list  for  the  third 
time,  —  the  first  lists  would  have  stocked  a  ware- 
house,—  and  recopied  it,  I  showed  it  to  Evan. 

He  looked  rather  cynical,  made  a  rapid  calculation 
in  which  the  quantities  I  had  ordered  and  the  square 
feet  seemed  inextricably  mixed,  and  then  said,  — 


214  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  limit  you,  but  at  a  moderate 
estimate,  allowing  for  the  usual  failures  to  sprout, 
you  are  ordering  enough  seeds  to  sow  two  acres. 
Where  do  you  mean  to  plant  them  ? " 

"  Why,  in  the  sun  garden,  of  course,"  I  stammered, 
beginning  to  realize  that  the  gardening  possession  is 
like  intoxication,  for  when  under  its  influence  you  see 
double,  and  not  only  do  your  flower  beds  increase  in 
number,  but  in  size  also.  "  You  know  we  planned  to 
keep  all  the  perishable  summer  flowers  together  there ; 
that  is,  except  the  nasturtiums  and  sweet  peas,  which 
of  course  must  go  either  side  of  the  long  walk." 

"  With  the  quantities  limited,  the  list  is  fairly  con- 
servative," he  continued,  "  but  I  see  a  dozen  annuals 
there  that  we  surely  have  no  room  to  waste  upon,  and 
they  will  leave  a  bare  spot  early  in  September,  if  not 
sooner.  I  do  not  expect  that  you  will  give  them  up 
without  a  trial,  —  nothing  less  will  convince  you, — but 
I'll  lay  you  a  wager  of  a  new  rose-arbour  to  nothing, 
that  their  names  will  not  be  on  your  list  next  year," 
and  as  he  spoke,  he  checked  off  a  name  here  and 
there,  adding  a  remark  as  if  dismissing  the  plant  for 
good :  — 

"  Sweet  alyssum :  Only  good  for  formal  edgings." 

"  Amaranthus  in  mass :  All  too  big  and  weedy  for 
a  small  garden." 


THE  GOLDEN  CLOW  OF   HARDY  COREOPSIS 


214  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  limit  you,  but  at  a  moderate 
estimate,  allowing  for  the  usual  failures  to  sprout, 
you  are  ordering  enough  seeds  to  sow  two  acres. 
Where  do  you  mean  to  plant  them  ?  *' 

"  Why,  in  the  sun  garden,  of  course,"  I  stammered, 
beginning  to  realize  that  the  gardening  possession  is 
like  intoxication,  for  when  under  its  ii 
double  only  do  your  flower  beds  inciv 

numb  "  You  know  we  planned  to 

hable  summer  flowers  together  there ; 
^turtiums  and  sweet  peas, 
;f  the  long  walk." 

'     -ly  con- 

servat'.-  /on  annuals 

there  tl 
they  M 
sooner.  I 

without  a  tr  •  •  >  ng  less  w  i  —  but 

I'll  lay  you  if  a  new  n  -thing, 

that  their  names  will  not  be  on  year," 

and  as  he  spoke,  he  checked  «.  e  here  and 

there,  adding  a  remark  as  if  dismissing  the  plant  for 

• 

ars-ioajKX)  YO*AH  fo  WOJD  nacrjoo  3HT 
"  Sweet  alyssum :  Only  good  for  formal  edgings." 

"  Amaranthus  in  mass :  All  too  big  and  weedy  for 
a  small  garden." 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  215 

"  Castor  beans :  Too  pretentious  for  your  garden, 
and  not  in  character." 

"Tassel  flower  (cacalia):  Feebly  inefficient.  Be- 
longs to  the  days  of  little  choice." 

"  Annual  chrysanthemums  :  Turn  to  mush  in  a 
rainy  season  and  require  as  much  care  as  bedding 
plants." 

"  Gourds :  Grotesque.  Only  fit  for  a  child's  gar- 
den, and  they  harbour  squash  bugs." 

"  Everlastings  in  variety :  Belong  to  the  days  of 
dried  apples  and  herb  tea.  Not  needed  by  those  who 
can  buy  fresh  flowers  in  winter." 

"  Love  in  a  mist :  Trivial." 

"Annual  poppies  :  Either  dry  up  or  decay.  Climate 
too  uncertain  for  the  annual  varieties,  excepting  fall- 
sown  Shirleys." 

Until  finally  my  list,  chastened  and  much  reduced, 
is  copied  for  the  last  time.  Of  annuals  it  has 
asters  in  separate  colours,  Truffants,  Victoria  and 
pompon ;  calendulas,  coreopsis,  centaurea  or  bluets, 
cosmos,  lobelia  errecta,  mignonette,  climbing  nastur- 
tiums, Japan  pinks,  portulacca,  salvia  splendens, 
white  "  cut-and-come-again  "  stocks,  sunflowers  in  va- 
riety, sweet  peas,  wall  flowers  of  the  annual  dwarf 
kind,  verbenas  of  the  mammoth  tribe,  evening  prim- 
rose, nicotiana  affinis,  —  the  white  night-blooming 


216  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

tobacco, — cheerful  balsams,  and  zinnias  in  many 
shades. 

The  perennial  and  biennial  plants  and  bulbs  of  the 
hardy  borders  we  shall  renew  by  seed  or  root  division, 
but  the  list  of  what  were  here  already,  or  were  set  out 
in  November,  is  a  brave  one  :  peonies  (colours  un- 
known), phlox,  columbines,  Canterbury  bells,  fox- 
gloves, bleeding  heart,  white,  yellow,  and  red  day  lilies, 
Spanish,  German,  and  Japan  iris,  honesty  (lunaria), 
golden  glow  rudbeckia,  pyrethrum,  oriental  poppies, 
hollyhocks,  monkshood,  anemone-Japonica,  larkspurs 
of  all  shades  from  white  to  deep  metallic  blue,  hardy 
white,  pink,  and  red  fringed  pinks,  lupins,  evening  prim- 
roses, bee  balm,  and  hardy  pompon  chrysanthemums. 

I  have  also  here  a  list  of  roots  and  bedding  plants 
to  stock  the  garden  with,  that  I  hope  to  keep  from 
year  to  year  in  a  flower  pit  with  a  stove  in  it  that 
I  have  in  mind  if  godmother's  fifty' pounds  hold  out; 
and  I  think  they  will,  because  Evan  has  been  so 
good  and  forgiven  me  a  small  sheaf  of  bills  that  I 
expected  to  pay  from  it,  so  that  it's  only  been  sampled 
as  yet.  These  plants  are  heliotrope,  scarfet  and  fra- 
grant geraniums,  lemon  verbenas,  tender  roses,  chrys- 
anthemums, both  Japanese  and  Chinese ;  Dahlias 
double,  single,  and  cactus,  and  gladioli  in  plenty. 

How  long  it  will  seem  from  the  time  my  seed  list 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  217 

goes  until  the  hotbed  is  ready  for  the  planting! 
Middle  March  is  quite  early  enough,  because  if  you 
begin  sooner,  unless  you  pot  off  the  plants,  they 
grow  too  big,  and  are  mashed  when  the  sashes 
are  opened  and  closed. 

I  haven't  shown  Evan  the  list  of  things  that  I 
ordered  from  the  "  Yellow  Journal "  catalogue,  and 
now  he  is  over  in  father's  study,  where  he  has 
politely  gone  to  take  a  hand  at  whist,  so  I  will 
not  disturb  him. 

Father  wishes  to  interest  the  local  clergy  in  the 
hospital  and  have  them  all  on  the  board,  so  that 
the  institution  shall  be  unsectarian,  but  not  irre- 
ligious, which  is  what  that  poor  word  often  seems 
interpreted  to  mean.  I  wonder  how  it  will  work! 

If  sects  could  exist  without  bigotry,  I  think  it 
would  be  so  much  better  than  trying  to  abolish 
them.  As  this  is  a  material  and  not  a  spiritual 
world,  a  certain  amount  of  competition  seems  nec- 
essary to  keep  things  going,  so  religion  has  got  to 
have  a  physical  body  and  sex,  so  to  speak,  just  the 
same  as  people.  Only  cherubim  and  seraphim  can 
afford  to  do  without  either. 

Three  of  the  clergy  dined  here  to-night,  —  the 
Roman  Catholic,  the  Anglican  Catholic  (ours),  and 
the  Severely  Protestant. 


2i8  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

We  had  a  very  good  dinner,  —  that  is  always  a 
safe  thing;  but  if  the  Board  meetings  are  to  be 
like  the  conversation,  I'm  afraid  they  won't  do,  for 
there  will  be  no  food  as  a  bond  of  sympathy. 

The  S.  P.  bubbled  over  with  good  fellowship  of 
the  "  dear  sister  in  the  faith  "  order,  only  he  took 
it  that  everybody  else  was  of  his  opinion,  and 
didn't  wait  to  see.  He  is  a  peculiar  man  and 
religiously  inconsistent,  constantly  doomed  to  de- 
plore his  own  actions.  He  has,  like  John  Rogers, 
nine  children,  which  he  uses  alternately  as  flags  of 
triumph  and  alms  basins.  As  it  is  spring,  he  waved 
them  vigorously  at  the  R.  C. :  autumn,  the  time  of  new 
shoes  and  flannels,  is  the  alms-basin  season.  The 
R.  C.  ate  in  comparative  silence,  watched,  fed  the 
dogs  quietly,  and  —  smiled.  The  A.  C.,  really  a 
charming  and  cultivated  man,  felt  himself  between 
two  fires,  and  was  so  aggressively  uncomfortable 
that  I  did  not  know  him. 

One  thing  I  feel,  that  if  the  R.  C.  goes  on  the 
hospital  board  with  that  smile  and  his  power  of 
holding  his  tongue  —  well,  it's  not  my  affair,  but  I 
shall  advise  father  not  to  ask  him. 

The  reason  that  Evan  is  over  there  playing 
whist  is  because  the  S.  P.  doesn't  believe  in 
cards,  or  at  least  says  politely  that  he  "can't 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  219 

play."  Blessed  "can't."  Neither  can  I.  The  card 
cell  was  left  out  of  my  brain,  or  perhaps  was  early 
absorbed  by  the  gardening  cell,  which  should  lie 
next  door  to  it,  both  being  games  of  chance. 

My  defect,  however,  has  kept  us  from  joining 
the  Hillside  Social  Whist  Club,  without  giving 
offence,  because  of  course  Evan  isn't  expected  to 
go  without  me,  and  for  a  person  who  can't  play  to 
join  a  whist  club  of  seasoned  matrons  and  patrons 
would  be  worse  than  for  a  blind  man  to  go  to  a 
pantomime. 

Then  permanent  clubs  that  go  on  winter  after 
winter  (I  think  Aunt  Lot  joined  this  one  when  I 
was  sixteen)  are  so  —  well,  so  stupefying,  to  say 
the  least;  and  the  supper  is  likely  to  be  of  what 
Evan  calls  the  surprise  order,  because  you  are  sur- 
prised if  you  get  any,  and  I'm  so  hungry  if  I  sit  up 
after  ten  o'clock  in  winter.  Then  imagine  voluntarily 
leaving  a  tete-a-tdte  with  Evan  in  a  garden  full  of 
books  all  in  full  bloom,  not  to  mention  seed  cata- 
logues, for  a  whist  party,  even  if  you  could  play. 

What  do  I  hear?  The  jingle  of  glasses,  and 
father's  room  is  full  of  smoke,  too.  Evan  is  actually 
offering  the  S.  P.  hot  Scotch!  The  wretch!  Has 
he  no  tact? 

Ah,  the  S.  P.  is  taking  it! 


220    GARDEN   OF  A  COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

Yes,  of  course,  "a  little  for  the  stomach's  sake," 
etc. ;  he  has  a  cold,  and  father  is  prescribing  it  pro- 
fessionally. Wicked  father !  All  three  have  colds ! 

The  R.  C.  smiles  and  makes  no  apologies.  He 
seems  a  companionable  sort  of  fellow,  after  all. 


XII 

PLANTING 

March  10.  The  snow  is  falling  softly  and  stead- 
ily, as  it  did  on  that  Saturday  in  December  when 
winter  and  the  great  storm  came  together.  Earth 
for  the  most  part  has  been  snugly  blanketed  ever 
since,  but  during  the  last  two  weeks  she  has  seemed 
restless  and  thrown  aside  the  covering,  showing  her 
brown  body  here  and  there ;  but  as  yet  it  is  pulse- 
less and  irresponsive.  For  even  as  human  vitality  is 
at  its  lowest  ebb  in  the  early  morning,  so  it  is  with 
plant  life  in  the  early  spring. 

From  the  sense  of  sight  alone  it  might  still  be  a 
midwinter  afternoon,  but  the  ear  catches  the  spring 
keynote.  True,  the  winter  birds,  pine  finch,  cross- 
bills, and  chickadees,  are  calling  in  the  spruces,  but 
an  occasional  song  mingles  with  their  greetings,  the 
exquisite  carol  of  the  fox-sparrows  beginning  jubi- 
lantly and  dropping  to  a  swift  close,  and  I  know  that 
these  are  the  first  migrants  feeding  below  in  the  field 
where  the  wind  has  laid  bare  the  seeded  grasses. 


222  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

Wonderful  gift  of  the  senses  divided  as  well  as 
united  for  our  use !  To  the  eye  it  is  winter,  to  the 
ear  and  the  heart  it  is  spring. 

I  have  not  written  in  my  Garden  Boke  for  a 
fortnight,  —  not  since  the  night  I  completed  my  lists 
of  seeds.  I  have  been  away,  away  in  my  commuter's 
city. 

I  did  not  care  to  go,  and  my  Familiar  Spirit  and 
I  held  heated  arguments  over  the  visit.  Yet  I 
went. 

I  said,  "  Why  should  I  go  ? " 

The  Familiar  replied,  "  Because  you  wish  to." 

"  But  I  do  not.     I  dislike  the  very  idea." 

"  Then  why  consider  it  ? " 

"  Because  I  think  it  will  do  Evan  good  to  have  a 
vacation  from  travel,  and  because  I  think  that  I 
ought  to  go.  He  also  thinks  it  will  be  good  for  me. 
Because  some  dear  old  friends  have  invited  us. 
Because  the  time  between  seed  buying  and  seed 
planting  is  so  long  that  I'm  out  of  patience  and  in 
danger  of  wearing  holes  in  the  seed  packets  by 
fingering  them." 

"  All  good  reasons,  but  the  main  one  is  that  you 
wish  to  go." 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  dislike  the  city  intensely." 

"  That  may  be,  and  yet  you  can  like  some  of  the 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  223 

things  it  has  to  offer.  It  is  not  well  to  decry  the 
source  of  supply.  The  money  to  support  com- 
muters' wives  is  largely  made  in  the  city." 

My  Familiar  Spirit  can  be  exceedingly  material 
and  disagreeable  at  times,  so  I  pretended  not  to 
hear,  but  continued, — 

"  Of  course  there  is  music  to  be  heard  there  just 
now,  and  some  paintings  I  wish  to  see,  and  if  one 
does  not  go  to  the  city  once  in  a  time  to  really  visit, 
not  to  be  a  hotel  mongrel,  one  is  not  able  to  eat  or 
shake  hands  in  an  up-to-date  way  with  the  summer 
people  on  the  bluff,  or  know  what  the  queer  new 
table  utensils  are  for.  Though  one  doesn't  care,  at 
the  same  time  one  likes  to  know." 

"As  I  said,  you  wish  to  go"  emphasized  the 
Familiar  Spirit  in  an  exasperating  way,  retiring 
from  the  dialogue  as  if  the  final  word  had  been 
spoken.  I  should  have  explained,  if  my  Familiar 
Spirit  had  given  me  time,  that  the  only  real  objec- 
tion I  have  to  the  city  is  born  of  the  impossibility  of 
living  there.  As  a  great  fair-ground,  a  place  to 
visit,  it  is  satisfactory  and  seldom  monotonous,  for 
you  are  quite  sure  never  twice  to  find  your 
friends  living  in  the  same  house  or  following  the 
same  fads.  You  may  be  amused,  then  bored,  then 
have  your  wits  sharpened  or  your  nerves  racked; 


224  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

meet  friends  gathered  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth,  or  find  the  place  as  desolate  as  Siberia.  You 
may  laugh  and  you  may  also  cry.  Yes,  that  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  I  could  not  stay  in  a  city. 
There  is  so  much  misery  one  must  see  and  cannot 
help,  that  it  makes  one  feel  small  and  shrivelled, 
while  hereabout  there  is  no  one  so  wretched  but 
what  it  is  possible  to  aid  him.  You  may,  in  short, 
do  everything  in  the  city  but  live.  I  mean  live  your 
own  life,  and  not  that  of  some  particular  clique,  the 
society  of  which,  if  you  ignore,  your  loneliness  will 
be  such  that  not  the  remotest  dweller  on  the  moun- 
tain side  could  compass  or  imagine  it  —  the  desola- 
tion of  a  crowd ! 

Then  to  be  ill  in  the  city !  I  was  ill,  very  ill  there,  the 
winter  that  I  was  eighteen.  It  was  in  a  good  house, 
and  the  people  were  kind.  I  lay  there  day  after  day, 
and  all  that  I  could  see  of  the  sky  was  a  little  ragged 
scrap  between  the  tall  house-tops.  The  sun  never 
crossed  this  gap,  but  sometimes  at  night  I  saw  the 
dogstar,  and  from  the  diffused  light  I  knew  that  the 
moon  was  up.  I  lay  watching  and  pining  more  and 
more  until  one  night,  when  the  moon  at  last  crossed 
my  vista,  it  was  a  strange  thing  rent  and  divided 
by  overhanging  wires,  and  Sirius  himself  seemed 
only  a  lamp  in  the  tallest  building.  As  I  looked,  life 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  225 

seemed  to  steal  away  from  me,  not  leaving  wholly 
but  keeping  beyond  my  grasp,  as  it  does  when  the 
body  lies  long  unconscious  before  death. 

Then  father,  wholly  comprehending,  in  spite  of 
risk  carried  me  home,  I  never  knew  how,  and  when 
I  next  looked  out  I  saw  the  gray-limbed  maples 
framing  sunset,  and  in  that  glow  my  life  came  back 
to  me.  Now  it  occurs  to  me  that  father's  study  of 
two  imaginative,  high-strung  women  at  close  range 
has  given  him  his  wondrous  insight  into  the  sex 
temperament,  a  knowledge  that  the  mere  technically 
perfect  scientist  fails  to  compass. 


I  have  been  to  the  city,  and  the  return  fills  me  with 
ecstasy.  Here  are  some  delights  that  the  savage 
misses  from  sheer  lack  of  contrast,  some  phases  of 
civilization- that  are  worth  bearing  temporarily  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  reaction.  If  one  never  went  to  the  city, 
one  might  not  so  keenly  realize  the  country's  potency, 
just  as  it  is  well  worth  the  trouble  of  wearing  best 
clothes  occasionally,  if  merely  for  the  pleasure  of 
taking  them  off. 

I  should  have  stored  away  the  details  of  this  visit 
with  the  "  general  results  "  of  the  year,  for  after  all 
it  was  fairly  comfortable  as  visits  go,  but  the  Fa- 


226  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

miliar  Spirit  would  ask  somewhat  impertinent  ques- 
tions. 

"  Was  Evan  rested  by  the  vacation  ? "  for  like  all 
familiar  things  it  calls  us  by  our  first  names. 

"He  was  amused  and  had  an  entire  change  of 
scene,  which  is  said  to  be  the  same  thing,"  I  an- 
swered laughingly. 

"And  you?  How  about  the  handshake?  And 
did  you  conquer  the  rotation  of  forks  ?  How  are 
they  wearing  soup  plates,  flat  or  deep  ? " 

"  As  there  are  two  social  schools,  the  old  and  the 
new,  I  must  confess  to  you,  Familiar  Spirit,  the 
handshake  is  in  a  chaotic  condition  and  the  soup 
plates  also.  In  two  cases,  however,  what  I  took  for 
bonbon  scoops  proved  to  be  soup  spoons,  dreadful 
utensils  for  high-chested  dowagers  inclined  to  slobber, 
as  well  as  for  mustached  men.  But  then,  mus- 
tached  men  are  under  ban,  and  these  scoops  were 
doubtless  invented  to  complete  their  extermination. 
However,  I  predict  gold  straws  for  soup  sucking  in 
the  near  future,  and  Saxon  beards  should  be  due 
next  winter.  Listen,  Familiar  Spirit,  but  do  not 
repeat !  In  spite  of  all  my  watchfulness,  at  the  most 
formal  dinner  of  my  stay  I  lost  count  of  weapons, 
and  when  at  the  finish  I  had  exhausted  all  but  one,  I 
faced  the  problem  of  lifting  rather  soft  ice-cream  and 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  227 

hot  chocolate  sauce  with  what  to  my  benighted  vision 
seemed  to  be  a  silver  toothpick !  A  sub-butler  finally 
brought  me  an  ice-cream  fork,  warm  from  the  dish 
water,  greatly  in  contrast  to  his  chilly  glance. 

"When  I  retrospected  later,  I  discovered  the  spiked 
tool  was  meant  to  unscale  the  artichokes,  and  'twas 
there  I  dropped  the  stitch.  But  tell  it  not,  Familiar 
Spirit,  until  you  hear  my  excuse.  My  dinner  partner 
was  the  last  of  six  who  in  two  weeks'  time  had  said, 
'Don't  you  get  jolly  bored  living  in  the  country?' 
as  if  they  had  rehearsed  the  words  and  tone  in 
chorus." 

I  never  before  formulated  how  crude  and  narrowly 
cockneyfied  the  town  life  is  here  in  the  United 
States  until  I  went  away.  What  English  gentleman 
would  ask  a  country-living  woman  if  her  life  bored 
her? 

Two  weeks  of  this  instead  of  the  home-table  talk, 
and  a  weird  entree  constantly  at  your  elbow  in  lieu  of  a 
dog's  soft  nose !  And  the  after  talk  about  who  won 
at  "  bridge  "  that  afternoon,  or  whether  it  should  be 
Lakewood  for  the  week-end,  or  if  the  husbands  could 
be  coaxed  as  far  as  Aitkin.  Think  of  it,  —  instead 
of  listening  to  father  and  Evan's  book  arguments, 
comfortably  curled  up  in  the  ingle  nook.  Or  if  they 
were  silently  busy,  strolling  about  old  London  with 


228  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

Leigh  Hunt,  spending  an  hour  of  mystery  in  the 
Tower  with  Ainsworth,  or,  being  in  a  frivolous  mood, 
donning  a  moral  mask,  the  more  discreetly  to  follow 
Houssaye,  a  gentleman  of  Evan's  introduction,  into 
the  company  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  and 
Madame  Popeliniere. 

Shakespeare  was  a  sage  for  any  and  every  day, 
and  our  merry-making  paper  Puck  chose  a  headline 
that  no  one  will  dispute :  "  What  fools  these  mortals 
be!" 

It  is  narrow  for  me  to  criticise  the  ways  of  these 
women.  They  could  not  have  my  father  for  theirs 
or  be  married  to  Evan,  so  what  can  be  expected  of 
them  ?  It's  a  combination  of  sheer  good  luck  and 
stupidity  that  my  sporting  interests  have  gone  to 
horses,  dogs,  and  garden,  instead  of  to  "  bridge." 

But  worst  of  all  to  my  country-bred  body  was  the 
two  weeks  of  going  late  to  bed  wide  awake  and 
vibrating,  and  of  waking  up  dull  and  exhausted. 


Ah  !  the  snow  clouds  have  parted  before  the  last 
sunbeams,  proving  it  March  and  not  December. 
One  more  walk  amid  the  snow  draperies  that  have 
cheered  the  winter,  and  lingering  here  kept  away 
the  only  combination  which  the  country  dweller  need 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  229 

dread,  —  a  black  March  where  frost  and  tha\v 
wrestle,  and  the  result  is  —  misery  and  mud. 

March  15.  The  Ides  of  March,  of  tragic  memory, 
have  brought  me  snowdrops,  —  which  are  the  first 
waking  thought  of  the  Garden  of  Dreams.  I  did 
not  expect  them  so  soon.  I  was  not  searching  for 
them;  I  was  standing  in  the  sunshine  by  the  Mother 
Tree,  looking  at  the  wound  made  by  the  cutting  of 
a  branch  that  the  great  storm  had  broken,  when  I 
spied  the  snowdrops  peeping  from  under  the  shelter 
of  the  circular  seat  where  Evan  had  planted  them. 

I  could  not  bring  myself  to  pick  these,  for  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  mother,  but  there  were  more 
beside  the  path  and  nestled  against  the  grass-bank 
by  the  rose  arbour,  so  I  gathered  some  of  them  and 
massed  them  with  green  moss  in  a  frosted  jar,  —  a 
spring  greeting  to  the  dinner  table.  Father  has  always 
held  that  everything  best  and  brightest  of  word  or 
thought  or  face  ought  to  be  gathered  round  this  board, 
considering  it  a  sacred  place  from  which  all  hurry  and 
trouble  and  dissension  should  be  banished. 

This  afternoon  I  planted  the  flower  seeds  in  the 
hotbed,  and  the  touch  of  the  moist  warm  earth  was 
like  a  caress.  It  seems  a  very  simple  thing  to  do, 
this  planting,  but  it  is  not,  for  the  adjustment  of 
depth  and  pressure  to  the  size  of  seed  requires  in- 


230  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

telligent  handling.  If  too  deeply  covered,  they  will 
mould ;  if  too  lightly,  they  will  be  washed  out  by 
the  slightest  lack  of  judgment  in  sprinkling,  and  the 
cry  of  the  discouraged,  "  My  seeds  did  not  come  up," 
is  the  result. 

The  "general  useful"  may  be  exemplary,  and  in 
all  other  respects  "know  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw," 
but  he  cannot  tend  seeds  in  a  hotbed.  In  his  anx- 
iety lest  they  be  thirsty  or  chilled,  he  waters  too 
much  and  hesitates  to  ventilate  properly  on  pleasant 
days.  The  result  is  that  the  seedlings  either  spindle 
or  suddenly  disappear  altogether,  through  the  rav- 
ages of  mould.  In  short,  hotbed  responsibility  is 
not  to  be  transferred. 

I  must  wear  gloves  in  my  gardening  work,  else  I 
may  have  knobs  on  my  joints  at  forty.  I  allowed 
myself  the  luxury  of  touching  the  soil  to-day,  for 
my  fingers  are  like  the  antennae  of  an  insect,  and 
receive  many  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  would  be  insu- 
lated by  gloves.  Then,  too,  I  seem  to  breathe  partly 
through  my  finger-tips. 

I  think  it  better  to  start  all  flower  seeds  in  the  hot- 
bed except  half  a  dozen  kinds  that  are  grown  en 
masse,  like  sweet  peas,  nasturtiums,  mignonette,  nico- 
tiana,  bluets,  convolvulus,  or  the  untransplantable 
sweet  sultans  and  annual  poppies.  It  is  so  much 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  231 

easier  to  keep  track  of  your  colours  and  adjust  the 
plants  themselves  in  the  beds  than  to  thin  out  seed- 
lings. Then,  too,  with  our  climate  of  droughts  and 
cloud-bursts,  the  growth  of  the  more  delicate  seeds 
is  precarious.  If  one  lacks  a  hotbed  altogether, 
much  can  be  done  in  terra-cotta  trays  on  the  win- 
dow ledge.  In  fact,  I've  sown  my  Margaret  carna- 
tion seeds  in  this  way,  for  the  hotbed  does  not  give 
them  the  cool  air  they  need,  and  they  are  already  up 
and  thrifty. 

Under  my  eye  Bertie  has  also  sown  some  tender 
vegetable  seeds  this  afternoon,  —  egg-plants,  toma- 
toes, peppers,  cauliflower,  —  besides  devoting  a  frame 
each  to  early  lettuce,  radishes,  and  cucumbers.  He 
has  a  straight  eye  and  a  sense  of  proportion  that 
promise  well  for  the  neatness  of  the  vegetable 
garden. 

March  20.  The  snow  has  retreated  from  the  open 
places,  but  still  whitens  the  north  side  of  fences  and 
shady  places  in  the  wild  garden.  The  Christmas 
ferns,  polypody,  and  mosses,  missing  the  frosty 
moisture,  are  looking  quite  shabby.  The  cheerful 
phoebe  bird  is  here,  and  the  redwing;  and  the  cro- 
cuses that  I  planted  in  October  are  unfolding,  the 
golden  yellow  taking  the  lead.  Early  this  morning  a 
prelude  of  the  spring  chorus  floated  up  from  the  ever- 


232  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

greens,  drawing  me  to  the  new  window-seat.  I 
know  that  morning  and  evening  will  often  find  me 
there  in  comfortable  disarray,  listening  and  gazing 
through  the  vista  of  the  trees. 

The  violets  in  the  frame  have  done  bravely  all 
winter,  but  now  their  stems  are  growing  short  and 
the  deep  purple  colour  is  paling.  To-day  Evan 
had  his  first  outdoor  buttonhole  flower,  for  snow- 
drops are  too  frail  for  wearing.  It  was  a  tiny 
cluster  of  Daphne  mezereum,  nestling  in  its  ever- 
green leaves,  —  the  earliest  shrub  to  blossom,  hold- 
ing the  same  place  in  the  garden  that  the  trailing 
arbutus  does  among  woodland  flowers. 

March  25.  We  have  a  new  dog  —  number  six. 
We  did  not  buy  him,  but  were  made  his  guardians  in 
a  way  impossible  to  refuse.  He  is  a  most  unique 
animal,  a  real  old  dog  Tray  in  looks,  not  years. 
His  name  is  The  Orphan,  and  he  looks  it.  His 
coming  was  in  this  wise :  — 

A  few  days  ago  a  flagman  on  the  branch  railway 
that  runs  northwest  from  town  was  hurt  to  death 
by  the  derailing  of  a  train.  Father  saw  at  once 
that  he  could  live  but  a  few  hours,  and  that  freedom 
from  pain  was  all  that  he  could  give  him.  He 
asked  the  man  if  there  was  any  one  he  wished  to 
see,  any  little  matter  that  he  would  like  adjusted. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  233 

At  first  the  man  seemed  stunned,  and  did  not 
answer.  Then  he  said:  — 

"I'd  like  to  see  The  Orphan,  sir.  There's  no- 
body else  that'll  care.  He's  my  dog.  I  guess 
you'll  find  him  in  my  flag-house  behind  the  coal 
box.  That's  where  he  lies  of  nights,  if  you  care 
to  bother.  I  don't  suppose  you  will,  though,"  this 
with  a  wistful  glance,  while  a  big  tear  rolled  down 
his  cheek. 

In  half  an  hour  or  so  the  dog  was  brought,  a 
sombre  creature,  big  and  woolly,  looking  like  a  huge 
Skye  terrier.  He  gave  a  little  whine  of  joy,  licked 
the  poor  man's  hand,  and  crouched  close  to  him. 

"  He's  almost  four  years  old.  He  was  a  freight 
car  '  left  over '  when  I  got  him  as  a  pup.  He'd  be 
good  company  to  you  if  you  happen  to  need  a  dog, 
and  he  don't  eat  much.  Else  perhaps  you'd  give 
him  something  —  a  drug,  you  know.  He's  too  retir- 
ing to  make  out  foragin'  for  himself,  and  he  ain't  got 
any  friends  but  me.  His  looks  was  always  up 
against  him." 

"I  have  five  dogs  already,"  said  father,  "but  I 
will  take  him.  No  faithful  dog  is  ill-looking  to  me." 

So  he  arrived,  sitting  solemnly  by  father  in  the 
gig,  and  Evan  pronounced  him  an  old-time  English 
sheep-dog,  and  well  bred. 


234  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

Strange  to  say,  he  has  attached  himself  to  Tim, 
after  fretting  for  a  time  and  seeming  ill  at  ease  with 
so  much  space  to  walk  about  in,  and  a  whole  horse 
stall  for  a  bed.  And  Tim,  who  only  tolerates  dogs  in 
a  grudging  sort  of  way,  evidently  returns  the  feeling. 
To-day,  hearing  conversation  in  the  stable,  I  thought 
Bertie  was  there  with  Tim,  but  found  only  The 
Orphan  leaning  against  Tim's  knees  and  licking  his 
fingers  that  were  feeding  him  scraps  of  meat,  while 
Tim  looked  positively  pleasant. 

It  doesn't  so  much  matter  what  one  loves.  To 
love  is  the  transfiguring  thing. 

March  26.  To-day  I  found  hepaticas  on  the  wood 
edge,  and  the  tiny  white  violets  that  bloom  almost 
before  the  leaves  uncurl  are  perfuming  a  dozen  sun 
spots  in  the  garden.  It  is  not  often  that  wild  and 
garden  flowers  may  be  combined  and  keep  their  attri- 
butes, but  these  two  harmonize  perfectly,  and  carry 
indoors  the  elusive  spirit  of  early  spring. 

April  i.  All  Fools'  Day.  I  have  planted  my  sweet 
peas,  a  pound's  weight,  in  a  long  double  row  in  the 
new  ground  beyond  the  sun  garden.  The  tall  nas- 
turtiums will  match  them  on  the  other  side,  making  a 
narrow  alley  of  the  walk  where  it  meets  the  cow- 
path  to  the  wood  lot. 

The  garden  will  have  a  trick  played  on  its  trustful- 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  235 

ness,  I  fear.  A  sharp,  cold  wind  already  rebuffs  the 
violets  and  makes  me  tremble  lest  we  have  laid  bare 
the  hardy  beds  and  uncapped  the  rose  bushes  too 
soon. 

In  the  hardy  garden  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of 
springs  lies  between  the  keeping  of  things  too  warm 
and  uncovering  prematurely. 

April  10.  A  sullen  week  of  hope  deferred.  Evan 
has  been  on  a  little  journey.  How  changed  the 
house  is  when  the  personality  that  pervades  its  every 
corner  is  withdrawn  !  Each  one  feels  it,  the  maids 
and  dogs  alike.  Father  even  is  restless,  having  come 
from  years  of  lacking  it  to  lean  on  male  companion- 
ship ;  and  I  —  I  fully  understand  why  in  old  times, 
when  the  knight  went  forth,  his  lady,  feeling  too 
cross  for  general  society,  betook  herself  to  a  tower. 
There  she  alternately  gazed  at  and  polished  his 
second  best  shield  until  trumpets  sounding  and  the 
drawbridge  falling  announced  his  return,  when,  rush- 
ing down,  she  fell  into  his  embrace,  unclasped  his 
armour,  and  kneeling,  relieved  him  of  his  sword. 

Of  course  now  there  is  no  drawbridge,  the  door 
opens  easily,  the  dogs  replace  the  trumpets,  and  very 
well  do  Bugle  and  Tally-ho  imitate  them.  Evan 
sets  down  his  suit  case  unassisted,  but  the  embrace 
remains  and  all  the  gladness. 


236  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

April  15.  The  first  hyacinths,  daffodils  at  theh 
height,  and  the  Russian  violets  by  the  Mother  Tree 
a  bed  of  glorious  velvet  bloom. 

To-day  we  filled  an  alcove  between  two  snowball 
bushes  in  the  bed  of  the  long  walk,  thick  with  bud- 
ded pansy  plants  and  tufts  of  English  daisies.  What 
a  delicate  birch  odour  the  pansies  have ! 

April  1 8.  Early  tulips  ablaze.  All  the  narcissi 
out  except  the  polyanthus  with  its  clustered  blossoms, 
and  the  poets,  with  the  lovely  pheasant's  eye.  The 
hardy  plants  are.  now  tufting  the  long  beds  with 
many  shades  of  green.  Forsythia  is  in  golden  glory. 
The  scarlet  quince  at  full,  and  the  countryside  white 
and  pink  with  peach  and  cherry  blossoms. 

May  i.  At  last  the  Garden  of  Dreams  has 
awaked.  It  is !  After  the  healthful  winter  of  snow 
the  whole  land  is  a-bloom.  All  the  bulbs  are  out 
except  the  parrot  tulips.  Down  by  the  spring  hole 
in  the  wild  garden  the  marsh  cowslips  are  heavy 
with  gold,  and  the  same  colour  is  swept  across  the 
pastures  by  the  dandelions.  Is  it  not  all  my  garden  ? 
All  the  cultivated  and  the  wild,  every  flower  and  fern 
in  the  wood  arid  open  as  well,  for  not  only  what  I 
plant  is  mine,  but  also  everything  that  I  enjoy.  And 
the  birds,  too,  do  they  not  belong  to  me  through  the 
loving  of  them  ?  Though  they  must  not  know  it ; 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  237 

even  the  thought  of  being  possessed  might  mar 
their  liberty. 

Evan  found  his  primroses  yesterday  morning,  one 
tuft  showing  half  a  dozen  blossoms.  When  I  saw 
his  face  as  he  called  me  to  him,  holding  them  in  his 
hand,  I  realized  that  after  all  it  is  the  little  things 
of  life  that  count,  for  the  primrose  was  not  only 
precious  in  itself,  but  for  all  it  stood  for. 

I  was  thinking  this  morning  as  I  watched 
the  bluebirds  flitting  about  their  knot-hole  in  the 
apple  tree,  heard  the  meadow-larks  down  in 
the  pasture,  the  flicker  laughing  in  the  wood  lot,  the 
robins  in  the  spruces,  and  the  jolly  song-sparrow 
almost  by  my  elbow,  that  the  important  garden 
birds  are  like  the  flowers  in  number.  How  few  com- 
paratively of  the  hundreds  listed  in  the  ornithologies 
we  can  know  well  enough  to  call  garden  companions, 
even  if  the  residents  of  the  wood  lot  and  home  woods 
be  counted  in. 

Many  come  and  go,  travelling  beyond  us.  We  hear 
a  strange  note  and  see  a  flutter  of  unusual  feathers. 
We  may  call  them  by  name ;  but  like  the  flowers 
unsuited  to  the  garden,  they  are  not  of  our  world. 
A  list  of  twenty-five  would  cover  the  confidentially 
intimate,  of  fifty  the  really  tangible. 

Martha  Corkle  came  to  tell  me  mysteriously  that 


238  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

Tim  has  a  cold,  she  is  quite  sure,  because  he  has 
taken  off  his  flannels  too  soon,  "which,  Mrs.  Evan, 
is  risky  for  a  man  of  his  years  "  (Tim  must  be  up- 
ward of  fifty),  "  and  would  you  not  kindly  ask  the 
doctor  that  he  cautions  him  ? " 

I  asked  her  why  she  does  not  speak  to  Tim  her- 
self, as  she  has  observed  the  cold  and  I  have  not, 
and  as  a  middle-aged  widow  she  could  certainly 
mention  flannels. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Evan,  I  thought  it  more  proper-like 
to  come  from  a  married  woman  that  is  recent,  so  to 
say,  me  being  so  long  widowed  is  the  same  as  not 
being ;  and  as  for  age,  there's  others  older,  ma'am. 
The  shape  of  those  common  bought  flannels  not 
fittin'  his  leanin'  figure  might  be  at  the  bottom  of 
it.  I  bein'  willin'  to  make  up  some  more  suitable 
from  always  making  Corkle's,  if  you'd  but  give  me 
the  order  so  to  do,  Mrs.  Evan." 

After  a  moment  the  complicated  sentences  straight- 
ened themselves  to  my  understanding,  and  I  solemnly 
said :  — 

"  Martha,  could  you  oblige  me  by  making  some 
spring  flannels  for  Timothy  Saunders  if  the  doctor 
prescribes  them  for  him  ?  "  Whereat  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  smile  I  had  ever  seen  there  crossed 
her  features,  and  she  actually  dropped  an  old-world 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  239 

curtsy,  saying,  "  I  will,  and  thank  you  kindly," 
becoming  for  the  moment  the  comfortable  English 
countrywoman,  instead  of  the  hereditary  servant  out 
of  her  class.  Really  there  are  human  possibilities 
in  Martha. 

May  ii.  I  think  there  is  a  four-handed  romance 
brewing  in  the  kitchen  sitting  room,  the  quartette 
being  Bertie  and  Delia,  sober-minded  Eliza  and 
Tim,  who  is  perfectly  unconscious  that  he  is  an 
admired  party.  In  the  evening  I  hear  laughter  and 
know  that  "  hearts "  and  "  forty-five "  are  being 
played.  I  also  know  that  Martha  Corkle  does  not 
approve,  for  I  see  her  rigid  shadow  sitting  apart, 
taking  no  share,  but  bound  to  play  the  matron. 

May  15.  Colour  is  swathing  the  land  again,  —  lav- 
ish colour,  the  delicate  whites,  flesh,  and  pink  of 
apple  blossoms,  fleecy  clouds  of  lilacs  drifting  from 
the  bank-wall  before  the  house  to  the  roadway, 
pinxter  flower  on  the  hillside,  along  the  wood  road 
blending  with  the  white  dogwood,  and  in  the  garden 
lilies-of -the- valley.  Truly  does  the  flower  language 
translate  their  meaning  as  "  Return  of  Happiness." 

May  17.  For  two  days  we  have  picked  and  picked 
the  lilies,  and  yet  there  is  no  end.  They  will  last  the 
month  out  if  there  is  no  heavy  rain  to  make  them 
yellow.  Evan  has  gone  to  town  each  day  laden  like 


240  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

a  Maypole,  the  neighbours  have  had  their  share  and 
to-morrow  I  take  a  clothes-basket  of  little  bouquets 
to  the  hospital. 

I  think  if  we  were  to  fall  asleep  for  ten  years,  the 
whole  place  would  be  overgrown  with  these  lovely 
flowers,  the  soil  suits  them  so  perfectly. 

The  resting  time  is  over  for  garden  and  gardener. 
All  is  push,  excitement,  and  hurry,  the  relentless 
hurry  of  growth.  Every  day  something  is  planted, 
some  long-watched  bud  unfolded.  After  the  twen- 
tieth it  will  be  safe  to  move  the  seedlings  from  the 
hotbeds  and  set  out  the  bedding  plants,  geraniums, 
heliotrope,  and  such-like  that  this  year  I've  ordered 
from  a  wholesale  florist  in  town. 

One  and  all  we  rush  outdoors  twenty  times  a  day, 
the  dogs  rebelling  at  the  curbing  of  their  liberty, 
"  Down  !  charge  !  "  being  the  order  of  the  season. 
Bluff  alone  is  discreet  enough  to  be  allowed  within 
garden  bounds  at  planting  time,  and  he  has  learned  to 
tread  gently ;  often  he  is  meekly  apologetic  for 
even  overstepping  on  the  grass  border  beside  the 
path. 

The  breakfast  table  is  drawn  into  the  bay  window 
looking  toward  the  garden,  and  on  balmy  evenings 
we  take  our  after-dinner  coffee  under  the  Mother 
Tree.  Gardeners  may  not  sit  idly  on  the  front 


THE   LONG  STRIP  IS  A  PERFECT  RAINBOW  OF  IRIS 


240 


THE  CARD} 


eiy 


a  Maypole,  the  neighbours  have  had  their  share  and 
oihes-baske  -    bouquets 

to  the  hos 

I  think  if  we  were  to  fall  asleep  fo 
whole  place  would  be  overgrow., 
flowers,  the  soil  suits  them  so  per! 

The  ,e  is  over  for  garden  and 

AM  it,  and   hurry,   the   relentless 

Every  day  something  is  planted, 

bud  unfolded.     After  the  twen- 

move  the  seedlings  from  the 

not:  «  bedding  plants,  geraniums, 

heliotnjpe,  a.  ,  year  I've  ordered 

from  a  whoicv 

One  a  t  ^y 

the  dogs  i 
"Down! 


kly   apologetic    for 
border  beside  the 


rawn  into  the  bay  window 

I3«!  A  Z\  «H5tT3  OHOU   3HT 

'almy  eve" 
:offee  under   the    M 


garden  b« 
tread  ger 
even  over 
path. 

e  breakfa 


ke  our  af 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  241 

porch  at  evening  daintily  apparelled.  This  is  the 
best  time  for  labour,  the  time  to  disappear  from 
view  and,  collarless  and  wrapped  in  a  russet  apron, 
delve  and  grovel  until  dusk  conceals  one  altogether. 

For  a  woman,  early  morning  is  the  time  to  gather 
flowers,  not  to  cultivate  them.  The  gathering  and 
arranging  brings  their  fragrance  into  one's  life,  but 
weeding  or  kneeling  among  dewy  plants,  stooping 
and  moiling  while  the  sun  each  moment  blazes  more 
fiercely,  is  for  the  workman  only.  To  the  woman  it 
means  fatigue  before  noon,  and  that  sunken  feeling 
in  the  chest  that  whispers  of  indigestion  or  desire  for 
sodden  sleep  directly  after  luncheon.  I  have  done 
it  and  I  know. 

May  30.  Decoration  Day.  Evan  at  home.  The 
garden  is  time-true,  and  yields  deep  crimson  peonies, 
white  iris,  and  blue  lupins  to  be  blended  together  for 
the  soldiers'  graves,  as  it  did  of  old.  The  peonies,  to 
be  sure,  are  not  true  red,  but  they  at  least  complete 
the  symbol. 

The  hardy  oriental  poppies,  scarlet  with  the  black 
eye,  are  fast  unfurling  from  their  green  coverings, 
and  the  long  bed  that  we  left  all  of  a  jumble  is 
bright  with  iris  of  many  hues  —  white,  violet,  purple, 
wine-red,  yellow,  and  variegated;  in  fact,  the  long 
strip  is  a  perfect  iris  rainbow. 


242  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

This  morning  we  planted  the  seven  raying  beds 
around  the  sundial.  Evan  conceived  the  idea  of 
matching  them  as  nearly  as  possible  with  the  colours 
of  the  solar  spectrum.  These  are  red,  yellow,  green, 
blue,  and  purple,  with  the  intermediate  shades.  The 
difficulty  is  to  get  the  various  colours  in  flowers  of 
even  growth.  We  found  all  of  the  shades  but  blue 
among  the  double  zinnias,  a  family  of  sturdy  growth 
and  willing  bloom,  —  crimson,  scarlet,  yellow,  orange, 
lilac,  and  purple.  For  the  blue  we  chose  the  rich 
metallic  cornflower  (or  centaurea),  Emperor  William, 
the  grass  between  the  rays  giving  abundance  of  green. 
Of  course  this  combination  is  a  lottery.  The  wheel 
may  be  either  gorgeous  or  hideous,  for  there  is  but  a 
step  between.  It  is  such  experiments  as  this,  how- 
ever, that  keep  the  gardener  alert.  Yet  there  are 
people  who  are  surprised  if  one  is  not  bored  by 
living  in  the  country! 

May  31.  The  first  garden  tragedy.  Alas,  that 
Evan  should  be  the  victim  !  This  morning  when 
he  was  picking  a  few  last  sprays  of  lily-of-the-valley, 
his  commutation  ticket  slid  from  his  vest  pocket 
unobserved  and  lodged  among  the  leaves,  where  it 
hid  until  I  discovered  it  in  the  afternoon.  Not  only 
did  he  have  to  pay  his  fare  to  town  and  back  again 
at  night,  but  he  had  no  ticket  to  exchange  for  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  243 

next  month's  issue.  The  pathos  of  this  tragedy 
cannot  be  writ  in  words.  Its  inwardness  is  ethical 
and  not  financial,  and  to  be  appreciated  only  by  the 
commuter  and  —  his  wife ! 


XIII 

JUNE 

OLD    ROSES  WORTH    GROWING 

June  8.  The  first  rose,  —  only  the  frail,  briery, 
Harrison's  yellow  that  came  overseas  in  1830  and  still 
lingers  in  old  gardens,  but  a  June  rose  nevertheless. 

The  garden  of  the  long  walk  is  all  aflame  with 
the  oriental  poppies,  and  the  fall  planted  Shirleys,  as 
if  kindled  by  them,  are  carrying  the  fire  line  quite 
down  to  the  sun  garden,  the  deep  red  colour  paling 
through  all  shades  of  scarlet,  rose,  and  pink  to  blush- 
edged  white.  The  poppy  though  brief  of  days  is  the 
garden  hypnotist.  Look  steadily  at  a  mass  of  these 
glowing  flowers  blending  their  multicolours  in  the  full 
sunlight.  At  first  their  brilliancy  is  blinding ;  then 
as  the  petals  undulate  on  the  slender  stems,  your 
attention  is  riveted  as  if  a  hundred  eyes  returned 
your  gaze,  and  drowsiness  steals  over  you,  for  each 
flower  bears  the  spell  of  the  hypnotic  pod,  whose 
seeds  bring  sleep. 


244 


GARDEN   OF  A  COMMUTER'S  WIFE    245 

"  Why  does  the  pine  tree  moan  ? "  asked  the 
poppy. 

"  It  does  not,"  answered  the  grass  that  crept 
about  the  pine's  roots.  "That  is  its  way  of 
breathing." 

"  I  make  oblivion,"  said  the  poppy. 

"And  I,  love,"  said  the  rose. 

"  Are  they  not  both  the  same  ? "  asked  the  tall 
white  pine,  stooping  to  shake  the  dew  from  its  slender 
fingers. 


In  these  days  the  morning  scent  lies  heavy,  and 
even  the  grass  yields  it.  The  mixed  grasses  of  the 
early  meadows  are  more  fragrant  than  the  later. 
The  perfume  of  the  vanilla  grass  is  ravishing,  while 
the  stiff,  stark  timothy  seems  more  like  straw.  Now 
among  the  outdoor  sounds,  bird  music  at  its  height 
and  the  babbling  notes  of  the  early  nestlings,  comes 
a  new  tone,  the  voice  of  the  lawn  mower.  If  you 
listen  to  it  sympathetically,  you  will  find  it  has  a 
various  vocabulary  and  that  its  moods  may  be  easily 
interpreted  by  the  human  ear. 

If  the  grass  is  of  the  right  height  and  condition 
for  the  cutting,  then  is  the  machine  happy,  cheerfully 
talkative,  easily  garrulous.  If,  however,  the  turf  is 


246  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

overlong  and  wet,  the  accents  are  thick  and  choked 
as  if  its  throat  needed  clearing.  If  one  wheel  is  on 
the  narrow  border  and  the  other  on  the  walk,  there  is 
a  rasp  of  protest  and  a  complaining  tone  denoting  a 
limping  gait;  while  if  the  machine  is  banged  heed- 
lessly against  tree  trunk  or  porch  steps,  recoil  both 
mental  and  physical  is  suggested  by  the  angry  growl 
and  whirr. 

All  garden  tools  have  speech  if  the  ear  is  keyed  to 
hear  it.  The  shove-hoe  working  on  the  gravel  path 
can  voice  whether  it  is  seriously  searching  out  weeds 
or  merely  shuffling  irresponsibly  about.  And  the 
same  tale  is  told  by  the  common  hoe  in  the  corn- 
fields. 

The  garden  history  of  June  would  still  be  in  many 
volumes  if  there  were  no  roses,  but  as  it  is,  all  else 
must  give  place  to  the  head  of  a  family  that  also 
yields  us  strawberry,  peach,  pear,  plum,  apple,  and 
many  of  the  most  useful  shrubs. 

The  scarlet  poppies  of  early  June  introduce  a 
colour  that  seems  to  belong  with  the  flowers  of  mid- 
summer and  appears  out  of  place  among  the  more 
delicate  hues  of  the  early  garden  even  as  the  scarlet 
tulip  looks  gaudy  in  contrast  with  the  narcissi  and 
iris,  though  perhaps  for  well  blended  richness  the 
hardy  flowers  of  June  will  match  those  of  any  season. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  247 

inging  from  white  through  sky  and 
o  a  metallic  purple ;  Canterbury  bells 
•rcelain  opaqueness,  white,  lilac,  rose,  and 
lumbines   of  every  solid   colour  and   the 
lined  varieties,  too,  that  suggest  the   fairylike 
blossoms  wrought  by  skilful  glass   blowers;  lemon- 
yellow  day  lilies  that  make  a  brave  showing  against 
a   backgro  h    branches;    peonies 

May  with  the  crimson 

•i    old-world   foxglove, 

the   golden  glow  of 

sweet  William,  white, 

eye,  and   harlequin,  that 

crowd  the  fringed  clove  pinks  almost  out  of  the  bor- 
der. Then,  too,  there  is  a  day  edition  of  the  yellow 
evening  primrose,  and  honesty  (lunaria),  the  herb  of 
magic,  in  three  tints,  —  white,  lavender,  and  purple. 

All  these  flowers  are  of  course  improved  by  fre- 
quent resowing  and  resetting,  and  by  having 
elbow  room,   and    yet    nowhere  do    they    se, 

gracefully  lovable,  and   so    wholl 
hardy  be,  as  in  the  bit  of  the  old  bor- 

ot   discip':  -c   the 

JJlV  T3HW3   .aSmOl  TO   3JOWAT  A 

soil  by  a  tangle   of   poppies, 

sweet  WB  oves. 

A  b  might    be    writtea  to   hardy 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  247 

The  larkspurs  ranging  from  white  through  sky  and 
mazarine  blue  to  a  metallic  purple ;  Canterbury  bells 
of  a  fine  porcelain  opaqueness,  white,  lilac,  rose,  and 
purple ;  columbines  of  every  solid  colour  and  the 
white-lined  varieties,  too,  that  suggest  the  fairylike 
blossoms  wrought  by  skilful  glass  blowers ;  lemon- 
yellow  day  lilies  that  make  a  brave  showing  against 
a  background  of  copper  beech  branches ;  peonies 
like  great  roses,  beginning  in  May  with  the  crimson 
Jacqueminot  colour;  spires  of  old-world  foxglove, 
four  feet  tall,  swaying  above  the  golden  glow  of 
hardy  coreopsis ;  and  mats  of  sweet  William,  white, 
pink,  crimson,  pheasant's  eye,  and  harlequin,  that 
crowd  the  fringed  clove  pinks  almost  out  of  the  bor- 
der. Then,  too,  there  is  a  day  edition  of  the  yellow 
evening  primrose,  and  honesty  (lunaria),  the  herb  of 
magic,  in  three  tints,  —  white,  lavender,  and  purple. 

All  these  flowers  are  of  course  improved  by  fre- 
quent resowing  and  resetting,  and  by  having  ample 
elbow  room,  and  yet  nowhere  do  they  seem  so 
typical,  so  gracefully  lovable,  and  so  wholly  what 
hardy  folk  should  be,  as  in  the  bit  of  the  old  bor- 
der that  we  have  not  yet  disciplined,  where  the 
soil  is  completely  hidden  by  a  tangle  of  poppies, 
sweet  William,  and  foxgloves. 

A  book  of    praise    might    be    written   to   hardy 


248  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

shrubs.  June  may  claim  many  that  in  late  seasons 
overflow  from  May,  —  the  newer  lilacs  (though  they 
are  never  so  satisfactory  as  the  old,  that,  straggling 
into  the  hedges  may  be  gathered  by  the  armful), 
spireas,  snowballs,  Carolina  alspice  and  syringas, 
while  Deutzia,  hydrangea,  and  althea  carry  the  shrub 
flowers  well  on  toward  autumn. 

Few  things  are  so  permanently  satisfactory  about 
the  home  acres  as  shrubs ;  and  the  commuter's  wife 
may  find  refuge,  likewise  her  table  decorations, 
in  them  when  mischance  overtakes  more  delicate 
flowers. 

"  Shrubs  are  an  awful  bother  to  trim,  aren't 
they  ? "  said  the  Lady  of  the  Italian  Garden  yester- 
day, on  making  the  first  call  after  her  summer 
entry  at  The  Bluffs,  and  professing  astonishment 
at  the  number  of  our  pickable  flowers. 

"  We  set  out  a  lot  two  years  ago,"  she  continued, 
"  and  certainly  should  have  flowers  this  spring,  but 
you  see  the  fault  all  lies  in  the  trimming.  The 
landscapist  that  started  us  off  said  of  course  the 
gardener  would  know  which  ones  had  to  be  trimmed 
in  the  spring  and  which  at  midsummer.  But  it 
seems  he  got  mixed,  and  balled  the  thing  up,  so 
the  first  year  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  sprig  of 
bloom,  and  hardly  a  leaf. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  249 

"Last  fall,  when  we  hired  your  Chris  as  second 
gardener  for  the  outdoor  things,  I  particularly 
charged  him  to  find  out  which  was  which,  and  re- 
member it.  Instead,  to  make  things  sure,  he  has 
shaved  'em  off  all  alike,  round  as  cheeses  and  the 
twigs  as  short  as  my  French  poodle's  hair  when 
he's  clipped  for  summer.  Yes,  my  dear,  not  a  bud 
left  on  the  rhododendrons,  two  hundred  bushes  of 
them  arranged  with  rocks  behind  to  make  a  ravine 
effect  on  the  left  side  of  our  lawn  by  the  grand 
drive.  All  connected,  too,  for  lighting  'em  with 
electrics.  It  is  simply  maddening.  Jenks-Smith 
has  just  bounced  him,  and  we've  got  to  fill  in  the 
ravine  with  cannas  and  coleus.  The  landscapist  was 
up  yesterday,  fifty  dollars  every  time  he  comes, 
and  he  was  shocked,  and  says  the  scheme  is  wholly 
inconsistent.  But  what  can  we  do? 

"  Perhaps  your  husband  would  come  over  some 
evening  and  suggest  something,  not  in  the  way  of 
business, — just  an  informal  call,  you  know,  —  for 
those  poor  clipped  things  look  like  left-over  Christ- 
mas greens.  How  do  you  manage  your  pruning 
now?" 

I  smiled  internally  as  I  thought  of  Chris,  and  told 
her  that  the  old  shrubs  had  largely  taken  care  of 
themselves,  except  for  a  little  shortening  of  strag- 


250  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

gling  branches  and  cutting  out  of  the  old  wood  as 
fresh  growth  replaced  it,  and  we  expected  that  the 
new  shrubs  would  do  likewise. 

Then,  too,  I  said  that  we  do  like  father's  old 
woman  patient  over  on  the  charcoal  hill.  She  had 
only  six  shrubs,  and  yet  her  little  dooryard  seemed 
overflowing  with  bloom.  When  people  stopped  to 
ask  how  she  pruned  to  get  so  many  blossoms,  she 
answered,  "  Prune  ?  Pickin'  constant  and  givin' 
away,  is  the  naturalest  sort  o'  prunin',  I  reckon." 

Of  course  Mrs.  Jenks-Smith  did  not  believe  me, 
however. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  you've  got  some  secret 
about  gardening  that  you  won't  tell." 

"  You  are  partly  right,"  I  assented  wearily.  "  Yes, 
there  is  a  secret,  but  I'll  tell  it  to  you  willingly, 
and  in  it  also  lies  the  reason  why  we  let  Chris  go. 
'  First,  be  sure  what  you  want,  and  then  do  it  your- 
self, or  at  least  see  it  done.'  " 

"  Is  that  a  rebus  ? "  queried  Mrs.  Jenks-Smith, 
wrinkling  her  brows.  "Ah,  yes,  I  understand. 
But,  my  dear  woman,  it's  impossible!  Me  stand 
out  in  the  sun !  Me  cut  flowers  to  give  away ! 
It  would  ruin  my  social  position.  Then  the  mani- 
cure says  that  arranging  flowers  is  so  bad  for  the 
fingers  and  greens  the  nails,  and  that  I  shouldn't 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  251 

even  do  that,  for  I  must  have  good  hands;  I've  got 
so  many  new  rings,  you  know.  Jenks-Smith  gives 
me  one  every  time  he  makes  a  coup." 


June  10.  The  Fuchsias  that  I  planted  two  weeks 
ago  in  the  shady  corner  between  the  end  of  the 
rose  arbour  and  the  bank  are  doing  finely.  I  wonder 
why  this  flower  is  so  neglected.  True,  the  country 
women  often  cherish  a  plant  or  two  on  the  porch 
in  company  with  the  oleander,  night-blooming  cactus, 
and  tub  of  amarylis.  It  is  also  used  in  filling  window 
boxes,  but  it  has  almost  wholly  departed  from  the 
gardens.  Fuchsias  when  well  grown  and  trained 
against  a  wire  screen  are  not  only  one  of  the  most 
graceful  and  decorative  outdoor  plants,  but  when 
gathered  on  long  sprays  and  arranged  either  in  vases 
or  laid  on  a  white  cloth  as  a  table  decoration  seem 
fairly  to  drape  themselves  under  one's  fingers.  The 
plants  also  are  easy  to  keep  from  year  to  year  in  a 
light  cellar  or  flower  pit,  and  by  cutting  them  back 
in  spring,  they  make  vigorous  and  almost  vinelike 
growth.  Storm  King,  Elm  City,  Surprise,  and  Mrs. 
Marshall  are  among  the  best,  fairly  covering  them- 
selves with  scarlet,  magenta,  or  rose  and  white 
flowers. 


252  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

I  gathered  the  first  real  bouquet  of  roses  this  morn- 
ing,—  splendid  Jacqueminots,  a  few  clear  pink  Anne 
de  Diesbachs,  and  half  a  dozen  moss  buds  and  heavy 
tinted  leaves  from  a  bush  that  was  very  old  even 
when  father  bought  the  place,  and  being  ungrafted 
and  on  its  own  root  has  kept  perpetual  youth  by  aid 
of  new  suckers.  It  is  always  best  when  possible  to 
plant  ungrafted  roses.  Our  seasons  are  so  variable 
that  in  spite  of  covering,  all  but  the  sturdiest  bushes 
are  liable  to  die  down  below  the  graft ;  flowerless 
briers  spring  up  undiscovered,  so  that  the  untutored 
may  cherish  them  a  whole  season. 

Of  course  no  other  flower  can  compete  with  the 
rose,  except  perhaps  the  carnation ;  that,  owing  to  its 
qualities  of  endurance  and  fragrance,  rich  vivid  or 
delicate  colouring,  is  almost  an  equal.  The  green- 
house rose  and  the  rose  of  the  American  garden  are 
almost  two  different  flowers,  however.  Of  course,  in 
England,  with  its  humidity  that  always  veils  even 
though  it  does  not  obscure  the  sun's  intensity,  the 
outdoor  conditions  are  more  even  and  like  those  of 
a  greenhouse.  There  the  roses  even  of  cottage 
gardens  are  perfect,  thick  fleshed,  and  sturdy,  while 
the  climate  allows  Gloire  de  Dijon  and  Marechal  Neil 
to  festoon  second  story  windows  unchecked,  in  com- 
pany with  white  jasmine ;  and  Marie  Van  Houtte,  a 
tea  rose,  grows  to  the  size  of  a  great  lilac  bush. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  253 

Those  who  plant  their  rose  garden  with  the 
memory  of  English  roses  blending  with  their  dreams 
must  be  disappointed,  as  well  as  those  who  read 
the  English  garden  papers  telling  of  gathering  La 
France  buds  outdoors  in  January,  and  then  start 
out  thinking  to  do  likewise  by  buying  the  latest 
offerings  of  the  "  Yellow  Journal "  catalogues. 

Of  course  the  new  bushes  that  we  set  out  last 
fall  will  only  show  their  colours  and  yield  a  few 
tardy  buds  this  June,  and  it  takes  at  least  a  two 
years'  trial  of  a  bush  to  prove  its  hardiness,  colour, 
fragrance,  and  vigour  of  growth.  But  my  present 
hope  is  in  the  old  bushes  that  are  proven,  and  as 
they  bloom,  I  shall  make  a  list  of  them  to  give 
to  my  friends  who  have  small  gardens  and  are 
always  asking  for  the  names  of  roses  that  are  "  not 
cranky." 

Some  of  these  bushes  are  old  settlers,  like  the 
white  moss,  Harrison's  yellow,  the  nameless  wine- 
coloured  rose  of  many  petals,  and  Madame  Plan- 
tier,  the  bush  that  Dan'l  gave  me  so  long  ago,  now 
grown  a  huge  shrub,  while  its  children  trained  as 
vines  are  mingling  on  the  rose  arbour  with  Balti- 
more Belle,  climbing  Victor  Verdier,  and  the  shell- 
pink,  thornless  blush  rose,  also  an  old-time  favour- 
ite in  English  gardens.  Some  of  the  others  are  of 


254  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

later  fame,  though  all  have  borne  the  test  of  at 
least  a  score  of  years, — the  original  growth  renew- 
ing itself  from  the  root, — and  one  and  all  are  faith- 
ful, satisfactory  bloomers,  asking  only  deep,  rich  soil, 
a  shelter  of  cedar  boughs  in  winter,  a  light  April 
pruning,  and  two  sprayings  with  weak  whale  oil  soap- 
suds before  the  buds  show  colour,  while  in  return 
they  will  yield  armsful,  apronsful,  yes,  clothes- 
basketsful,  of  roses. 

June  14.  Saturday.  This  morning  as  I  was 
pottering  among  the  roses,  making  ready  for  the 
June  festival  now  beginning,  by  tying  up  a  branch 
here  and  there,  and  seeing  that  the  bushes  were 
well  supported  in  case  heavy  showers  should  come 
when  the  bloom  was  at  its  height,  I  heard  a  babel 
of  voices  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  wood  lot 
in  the  direction  of  the  wild  walk. 

I  hastened  down  there  because  we  have  already 
transplanted  many  ferns  and  wild  plants  to  the 
edge  of  the  path,  and  the  trees  and  bushes  are 
full  of  nesting  birds  that  I  knew  of  old  used  to 
attract  unregenerate  school  children  on  egg  hunts 
bent,  so  that  either  father  or  Tim  had  been  fre- 
quently obliged  to  patrol  the  place  on  Saturdays 
in  May  and  June. 

Guided  by  the  voices,  I  soon  came  upon  a  group 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  255 

of  perhaps  a  dozen  females  standing  about  a  stunted 
maple,  gesticulating  wildly.  At  the  moment  I 
appeared,  as  if  obeying  a  signal,  they  sank  to  the 
ground  in  unison  like  a  band  of  conspirators  on  the 
stage,  and  there  remained  squatting  uncomfortably, 
the  grass  being  deep  and  soaking  wet,  while  they 
gazed  at  the  maple. 

For  a  moment  I  was  nonplussed.  The  women 
ranged  from  youngish  to  middle  aged,  the  chief 
conspirator  (I  judged  her  to  be  the  chief  because  she 
stood  up  and  pointed,  though  not  with  a  dagger)  was 
perhaps  fifty ;  tall,  lean,  thin  in  the  legs  and  hair, 
but  wearing  an  untrimmed  sailor  hat,  and  a  very 
short  divided  bicycle  skirt.  She  carried  a  book  and 
an  opera  glass,  while  a  luncheon  box  was  hung  over 
one  shoulder.  Then  I  saw  that  all  the  others  were 
equipped  in  a  similar  manner.  As  I  went  forward 
to  warn  them  away,  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  chief 
say:  — 

"  Ladies,  in  that  tree  is  the  clay-lined  nest  of  a 
wood  thrush.  The  mother-bird  is  now  brooding.  In 
a  few  moments,  when  you  have  observed  her  patient 
immobility,  I  will  see  whether  the  nest  contains  eggs 
or  young  birds ;  if  the  latter,  we  may  hope  to  observe 
the  method  of  feeding  and  home  sanitation  practised 
by  our  feathered  little  sister  in  the  bush." 


256  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

"  Not  while  Barbara  and  six  dogs  are  on  the  prem 
ises,"  I  thought.  Then  the  whole  thing  flashed 
across  my  intelligence.  The  conspirators  were  doing 
a  Cook's  Tour  in  Birdland !  For  a  moment  I  ex- 
pected to  see  the  group  arise  solemnly,  take  hands 
and  dance  around  the  chief,  singing :  "  Follow  the 
man  from  Cook's,"  then  I  took  action,  steadying  my 
voice,  and  using  father's  pacific  formula  for  such 
cases. 

"  You  probably  are  not  aware  that  you  are  tres- 
passing, but  this  is  private  ground,"  my  voice  becom- 
ing more  emphatic  as  I  saw  that  the  thrush  had  left 
the  nest,  and  was  summoning  assistance  by  means  of 
her  cluck  of  alarm,  which  was  instantly  answered  by 
the  nearby  robins'  "  quick,  quick,"  the  veery's 
"  whew  "  from  the  woods,  the  catbird's  "  miou " 
from  the  garden,  as  well  as  a  chorus  of  others. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  the  chief,  beaming 
upon  me  patronizingly.  "  That  is,  I  mean  we  are  not 
in  any  way  trespassing.  We  are  studying  birds  —  a 
Bird  Class,  you  know.  Of  course  I  was  aware  that 
this  land  belongs  to  the  doctor,  and  that  is  the  very 
reason  why  I  have  chosen  it  as  the  meeting  place 
for  my  class  for  the  next  two  weeks,  as  I  hear  that  he 
has  protected  birds  for  a  long  period,  so  that  more 
species  can  be  found  nesting  in  a  small  radius  than  in 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  257 

any  place  conveniently  near  town.  This  fact  guided 
my  choice,  for  we've  quite  exhausted  the  city  park ; 
and  later  on  we  are  going  into  the  deep  woods  to 
observe  the  moulting,  and  to  differentiate  the  plu- 
mage of  young  and  adult  birds.  Ladies,  look  quickly  ! 
the  female  wood  thrush  is  just  above  your  heads,  giv- 
ing a  tender  maternal  call  to  attract  the  attention  of 
her  young.  Observe  her  smaller  size,  and  the  differ- 
ence in  the  breast  marks." 

"  That  is  not  a  female  wood  thrush,"  I  asserted 
boldly.  "  It  is  a  veery  that  has  come  up  from  the 
spring  to  help  the  wood  thrush  drive  away  intruders. 
If  you  were  a  red  squirrel  or  a  garter  snake,  you 
would  get  a  good  pecking,  I  can  tell  you;  but  as 
you  are  a  human  being,  the  thrush  asks  me  to  tell 
you  to  go  away,  and  not  come  back." 

"  Really,  this  is  most  extraordinary !  "  gasped  the 
chief.  "  Do  you  take  no  interest  in  bird  study  ? 
This  is  the  only  method  of  learning  their  normal 
habits.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  join  my  class. 
It  might  open  a  new  vista  before  your  unseeing  eyes. 
I  would  take  you  at  half  rates  if  you  are  connected 
with  the  doctor's  household." 

My  patience  vanished.  Ah,  for  a  tomahawk  to 
hurl!  Lacking  that,  I  used  words. 

"  One  moment,  if  you  please,  before  you  leave.     I 


258  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

am  Barbara,  the  doctor's  daughter,  and  I  know  the 
birds  in  this  field  and  these  woods  as  well  as  I  do  the 
fingers  on  my  hands.  So  well  do  I  know  them  that 
I  will  not  have  them  worried,  or  their  privacy 
invaded.  Even  if  I  did  not  object,  it  is  useless  for 
you  to  go  about  in  a  mob  to  try  to  learn  a  thing 
about  them ;  for,  so  surrounded,  not  one  of  their 
actions  would  be  normal.  Two,  even,  is  a  crowd, 
if  you  wish  to  learti  the  ways  of  birds.  How  would 
you  like  to  have  a  party  of  ten  or  a  dozen  people 
camp  outside  the  window  of  your  bath-room  to 
'  observe '  you  ?  Would  your  actions  be  normal  and 
unflurried  ? " 

One  of  the  young  girls  giggled,  but  still  the  chief 
would  not  retreat,  and  tried  suavity. 

"  This  is  the  new  method  of  '  naming  birds  without 
a  gun,'  my  child,  instead  of  shooting  the  poor  little 
things,  to  learn  their  names  as  wicked  scientific  men 
do." 

"  But  even  you  haven't  learned  their  names  rightly 
it  seems ;  so  how  can  you  teach  these  others  ?  And 
I'm  sure  it's  no  worse  to  kill  a  few  outright  to  be 
object  lessons  to  hundreds  in  a  museum,  than  to 
shatter  the  nerves  of  entire  families,  and  addle 
unhatched  eggs,  as  you  are  doing.  Now  I  think  I 
know  why  my  pair  of  mourning  doves  deserted  their 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  259 

nest  over  in  the  pines  last  week.  You've  been 
observing  them,  too !  " 

The  chief  actually  blushed,  stammered,  then  led 
the  retreat,  which  was  made  the  more  rapidly,  as  at 
that  moment  Bluff,  Lark,  and  the  hounds,  having 
found  my  trail,  nosed  me  out,  and  though  naturally 
most  polite  dogs,  something  about  the  conspirators 
jarred  upon  them,  and  they  said  all  the  things  that  I 
could  not  say. 

In  the  afternoon,  in  driving  along  the  wood  road 
with  father,  I  came  upon  the  party  crouching  by  the 
wayside  and  evidently  endeavouring  to  identify  a 
large  round  nest  well  up  in  an  oak  tree  by  aid 
of  a  coloured  picture  book  of  birds'  nests.  I  do  not 
think  they  were  successful  because  the  nest  hap- 
pened to  be  the  old  winter  home  of  a  gray  squirrel ! 

June  15.  Rose  Sunday.  A  gentle  shower  last 
night,  together  with  a  warm,  hazy  morning,  has 
unloosened  hundreds  of  buds,  and  the  Rose  Festival 
is  now  open.  For  two  weeks  at  least  we  shall  think 
and  almost  eat  and  drink  roses.  Nothing  rare  or 
wonderful,  or  large ;  merely  plenty  of  good,  healthy, 
old-fashioned  roses,  the  only  kind  worth  growing  in 
the  garden  of  the  commuter's  wife. 

I  gathered  four  bouquets  from  the  great  bushes  this 
morning,  one  for  the  table,  one  for  church,  one  for 


260  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

father's  desk  in  the  study,  and  one  for  Martha 
Corkle,  whom  I  found  down  in  the  garden  before 
breakfast,  gazing  at  the  flowers  in  a  state  of  pensive 
admiration.  Martha  has  not  had  her  usual  spring 
and  snap  of  late.  I've  been  afraid  the  climate  is  too 
hot  for  her,  and  I  was  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  speak 
with  her,  out  of  doors. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Evan,  I  can't  say  as  I  do  feel  natural 
like.  Some'ats  come  over  me,  and  no  disrespect 
intended,  I  think  it's  the  beer,  Mrs.  Evan,  or,  I  should 
say,  the  want  o'  it." 

"  What !  beer  ?  "  I  asked  in  alarm,  visions  of  the 
stately  Martha  overcome  by  drink  rising  before  me. 

"Maybe  you  never  knew  or  else  disremember, 
Mrs.  Evan,  that  in  the  old  country  we  all  had  our 
allowance  of  ale  or  'ome-brewed,  the  same  which  is 
meat  and  drink  to  the  stomach,  Mrs.  Evan,  mine  as 
being  house-keeper  never  being  less  than  eight  pints 
the  week.  Not  that  I  blame  you,  Mrs.  Evan  ;  for  how 
can  the  lady  give  out  beer  for  one  in  a  'ouse  that  would 
upset  another,  Mrs.  Evan,  and  I'd  not  take  the 
responsibility  of  seein'  it  served  to  Delia,  she  bein' 
Irish  and  so  hot-headed ;  and  Eliza  would  take  it  to 
heart  sore,  she  thinkin'  all  beers  and  liquors  the  Devil's 
dish-water,  though  she  bein'  herself  one  of  the  white 
cheese  breed  of  women  that  a  drop  o*  beer  would 


260  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

father's  desk   in   the    study,   and   one   for    M 
Corkle,  whom  I  found  down  in  the  garden  before 
breakfast,  gazing  at  the  flowers  in  a  state  of  pensive 
admiration.      Martha  has  not  had  her  usual  spring 
and  snap  of  late.     I've  been  afraid  t.  te  is  too 

hot  for  her,  and  I  was  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  speak 
with  her,  out  of  doors. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Evan,  I  can't  say  as  I  do  r 
like.      Some'ats   come  over  me,  and  no  dis: 

hink  it's  the  beer,  Mrs.  Evan,  or,  I  should 
ant  o'  it." 

>eer  ? "  I  asked  in  alarm,  visions  of  the 
stately  Martha  overcome  by  dri;  refore  me. 

r   knew   o  .  mber, 

Mrs.  Evan,  'f\  country  we  all  had  our 

allowance  of 
meat  and  dr 
being  hous, 

the  week.     ;  >r  how 

can  the  lady  give  •  that  would 

upset  anotv  d   not   take  the 

responsibility  of  '.  to  Delia,  she  bein' 

Irish  and  so  hot-headed  ;  and  Eliza  would  take  it  to 
heart  sore,  she  thinkin'  all  beers  and  liquors  the  Devil's 
dish-water,  though  ^nVHeln   ncrself  one  of  the 
cheese  breed  of  women  that  a  drop   o'   beer  would 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  261 

hearten.  I've  thought  it  over,  Mrs.  Evan,  and  I  don't 
see  the  way  clear  to  it,  bein'  the  fault  o'  mixed  races, 
and  not  yours,  mum.  For  that  matter,  Timothy  Saun- 
ders  he  says  there  isn't  any  'ome-brewed  to  be  got 
over  here,  the  same  bein'  thin  and  watery,  and  I  do 
claim  there's  no  such  thing  for  making  one  feel 
respect  for  the  stomach  as  'ome-brewed  along  with  a 
lean  cut  o'  beef." 

Neither  could  I  see  the  way,  and  I  could  under- 
stand her  craving,  though  I  had  not  before  thought 
of  the  omission.  Beer  dealt  out  in  the  kitchen  of  a 
New  England  physician !  and  Martha  was  not  one 
to  take  it  secretly.  Irrespective  of  the  Village  Liar 
and  the  Emporium,  such  a  thing  was  not  to  be  con- 
sidered. Poor  Martha,  as  well  as  the  sundial,  it 
seems,  is  the  victim  of  changed  conditions. 

I  turned  the  talk  to  the  roses  and  gave  her  a 
bouquet  for  the  blue  and  white  ginger  jar  that  she 
keeps  for  stray  posies  on  the  sill  of  the  long  window 
above  the  kitchen  table,  and  promised  her  a  row  of 
geraniums  to  fill  the  shelf,  a  frilled  curtain  for  the 
top,  and  a  canary,  —  things  that  made  the  Somerset 
kitchen  so  quaintly  attractive  ;  for  stiff  as  Martha  is, 
she  is  not  ashamed  of  loving  flowers,  in  fact,  such  an 
idea  would  never  occur  to  her.  Still,  I'm  afraid  that 
they  will  not  be  as  "  heartening  "  as  the  home-brewed. 


262  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

I  think  this  is  a  matter  that  I  may  bring  before 
Evan  without  breaking  my  vow  of  never  talking 
servants. 

June  1 8.  Evan  says  the  beer  question  will  adjust 
itself.  Blessed  faith  of  man!  But  then,  I've  ob- 
served things  generally  do,  if  not  scattered  and 
tossed  about  by  argument  like  thistle  balls  in  a  gale. 

I  spend  several  hours  every  day  now  in  arrang- 
ing my  flowers,  for  outdoor  roses  are  blooms  of  a 
day  that  need  frequent  renewal.  I  have  a  special 
shelf  in  the  pantry  for  this  work,  the  tool  house 
being  overcrowded.  I  am  also  now  realizing  the 
benefits  of  a  large  supply  of  flower  holders  of 
various  shapes  and  sizes.  Not  only  have  I  inherited 
a  whole  family  of  blue  and  white  bowls,  the  most 
fascinating  receptacles  for  short-stemmed  garden 
roses,  and  two  darling  India  jars  that  belonged  to 
father's  mother,  as  well  as  some  pieces  of  fine  cut 
glass ;  but  friends  knew  my  foible,  and  my  wedding 
gifts  ran  to  vases,  instead  of  coffee  spoons  and 
pie  knives;  while  Evan  has  given  me  half  a 
dozen  inexpensive  jars  of  a  fine  shade  of  dull 
green  glass  for  holding  heavy,  long-stemmed  flowers, 
like  peonies,  hollyhocks,  and  lilies. 

The  honeysuckles  that  wall  the  long  walk  on 
the  northwest  and  drape  the  windows  and  porch 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  263 

are  in  bloom,  and  the  humming-birds  only  leave 
the  feast  the  long-tubed  flowers  offer  when  dusk 
and  the  hawk  moths  appear  together. 

Is  there  anything  more  intoxicating  than  a  great 
bowl  of  pink,  red,  and  white  roses  that  have  been 
picked  before  the  dew  dries,  all  fringed  and 
wreathed  with  honeysuckle?  They  go  to  my  head 
as  wine  might,  and  when  I  bury  my  face  in  them 
I  feel  moved  to  dance  and  sing  like  a  bacchante. 
I  am  a  pagan  these  days,  dazzled  with  colour, 
moved  by  sensations  not  logic,  and  ruled  by  the 
god  Outdoors.  Father  says,  however,  that  I  am 
not  a  pagan  at  heart,  but  a  Christian  pantheist  like 
himself,  and  moreover  affirms  it  to  be  the  most 
wholesome  and  sane  of  beliefs. 

Evan  carries  a  bouquet  of  roses  to  town  daily, 
the  name  of  Maypole  which  he  acquired  in  lily- 
of-the-valley  time  still  adhering  to  him.  Some  of 
the  other  commuters,  hoi  polloi  with  crumby  chins 
and  egg  on  their  mustaches,  cannot  understand 
what  a  man,  full  grown,  broad  shouldered,  and  six 
feet  in  height,  without  symptoms  of  softening  of 
the  brain,  should  want  with  a  perpetual  bouquet 
The  man  in  question,  considering  it  purely  his  own 
business,  does  not  enlighten  them  by  saying  that 
he  cares  so  much  about  having  flowers  on  his 


264  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

office  table  that  he  carries  them  gladly,  and   there- 
fore is  called  eccentric. 

I  have  always  noticed  that  when  people  consider 
others  eccentric,  it  is  because  they  are  revelling  in 
some  form  of  enjoyment  that  their  critics  can  neither 
compass  nor  share,  and  there  are  no  people  so  devoid 
of  nature  sentiment  as  the  rank  and  file  of  commer- 
cial American  males. 


June  20.  Roses,  and  more  roses !  The  arbour 
vines  are  rich  with  colour.  I  am  almost  glad  that 
roses  do  not  last  all  summer ;  they  are  so  strenu- 
ous, they  demand  the  best  of  everything,  food 
lodging,  care,  and  I  should  be  worn  out  also  with 
the  prolonged  luxury  of  the  revel. 

The  sweet  peas  are  beginning  to  fringe  the  trellis 
top,  and  bow  and  blush  to  the  nasturtiums  opposite, 
all  swaying  to  and  fro  in  a  line  on  either  side  the 
path  as  if  taking  sides  in  the  country-dance  that  fol- 
lows the  minuet  of  the  courtly  roses,  and  marks  the 
entry  of  the  glowing,  less  aristocratic  summer  flowers 
of  July  and  August. 

****** 

]  've  been  watching  a  pair  of  song  sparrows  for  two 
weeks  past,  and  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  265 

there  are  birds  of  defective  judgment  as  well  as 
people.  This  couple  evidently  were  either  young 
and  undecided,  or  for  some  other  reason  late  in- 
mating,  and  they  did  not  build  their  nest  between  the 
roots  of  a  shrub  or  in  a  sturdy  bush  as  well-conducted 
song  sparrows  should  do,  but  balanced  it  almost 
at  the  end  of  a  branch  of  a  rose  bush  that  would 
surely  bend  over  as  the  roses  opened  and  grew  heavy. 
To-day  the  inevitable  happened.  A  shower  bent  the 
bush,  and  the  eggs  rolled  out  and  were  broken.  I 
reproach  myself,  for  I  should  have  tried  to  prop  up 
the  nest,  but  I  thought  that  they  knew  their  business. 
However,  it  is  only  June,  and  it  may  teach  them  to 
plan  better  next  time. 

June  30.  The  hardy  border  roses  are  practically 
over,  a  great  storm  last  night  having  scattered  the 
ripened  bloom  upon  the  ground  in  a  foam  of  red, 
white,  and  rose-coloured  petals.  The  arbour  has  not 
yet  reached  perfection,  and  the  summer  roses  in  the 
four  corner  beds  of  the  sun  garden  are  sending  up 
strong  shoots  set  thick  with  buds. 

We  have  made  our  list  of  satisfactory  hardy, 
fragrant  roses  that  we  have  tested  up  to  date.  I  will 
write  it  in  my  Garden  Boke  so  that  I  may  not  for- 
get when  people  ask  me  about  them.  Some  of  the 
bushes  are  now  too  old  and  woody  to  yield  large 


266  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

flowers,  but  we  shall  simply  renew  them  in  kind,  and 
avoid  experiments  as  far  as  possible.  A  hundred  of 
such  bushes  are  all  that  a  woman  gardener,  even 
with  a  wide  ambition,  can  manage  either  to  plant, 
suitably  care  for,  or  to  gather  and  give  away  the 
flower  crop,  while  fifty  will  yield  almost  equal  joy. 
Of  white  we  have  Madame  Plantier,  Bath  Moss, 
Coquettes  des  Blanches,  and  Coquette  des  Alpes ; 
pink  —  Centifclia,  the  hundred-leaved  Provence 
Rose,  Magna  Charta,  Anne  de  Diesbach,  Paul 
Neyron  (the  child  of  Anne  de  Diesbach  and  Victor 
Verdier),  and  La  Reine ;  dark  red  —  Baron  de 
Bonstettin,  Duke  of  Albany,  Camille  de  Rohan ; 
deep  bright  crimson  —  Alfred  Colomb,  Jacqueminot, 
Fischer  Holmes,  and  Marie  Bauman.  Of  the  mosses, 
both  the  common  and  crested. 

These  roses  grown  outdoors  of  course  must  have 
shorter  stems,  and  fade  and  drop  their  petals  sooner 
than  their  indoor  brothers.  Others  may  have  finer, 
and  the  Italian  garden  on  The  Bluffs  disports  two 
thousand  rose  trees,  but  these  are  my  very  own  to 
love  and  gather  and  give  away;  their  faults,  even, 
are  born  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  climate  of  my 
own  country.  In  short,  they  are  my  children,  and 
therefore  none  others  can  be  so  lovable. 

Late  this  afternocn  a  young  coloured  girl  of  a  very 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  267 

humble  family  came  to  the  door  and  asked  for  me. 
Her  sister  is  to  be  married  to-night,  and  she  came  all 
a-giggle  to  beg  a  bouquet  for  "  de  bride.  Roses,  an' 
horse-hair  ferns,  an'  you  please,  missis ;  dem's  what 
de  quality  most  allers  carries." 

I  took  my  scissors  and  was  about  to  gather  a  gay 
bunch  of  the  brightest  that  remained,  when  a  voice  at 
my  elbow  said,  "  Could  yo'  spare  dem  white  uns 
climbin'  on  de  clo'se  rack  yander  ?  Sis  is  so  per- 
tikeler  to  have  dem  'propriate,  an'  she  done  want  no 
common  colours  to  break  luck,  —  all  nice  white  roses, 
—  an'  I've  brought  a  sash  to  tie  'em  jes'  like  hern,  if 
you'd  be  so  good's  to  bow  it  on.  Folks  reckon  down 
town  you've  got  such  a  way  o'  techin'  things." 

Thus  beguiled,  I  arranged  a  graceful  bouquet  of 
Madame  Plantier,  unlike  the  stiff  pyramid  of  my 
first  intention,  fringed  it  round  about  with  moss 
buds  and  maidenhair,  —  wild,  to  be  sure,  —  and  tied 
it  firmly  with  string,  then  held  out  my  hand  for  the 
ribbon,  rebuking  myself  the  while  for  smiling  at  the 
dark  woman's  desire  for  the  symbolic  white.  Wasted 
twinge  of  conscience,  as  many  New  England  twinges 
are !  The  "  sash  "  was  fully  two  yards  long  and  of 
intense  scarlet! 


XIV 
JULY 

THE   BED    OF    SWEET   ODOURS 

July  2.  I  think  it  was  Jefferies  who  said,  "The 
sowing  of  life  in  the  springtime  is  not  in  the  set 
straight  line  of  the  drill."  Surely  every  one  must 
realize  this,  who  lives  close  to  Nature  and  watches 
her  mobility,  for  the  incoming  of  growth  envelops 
both  the  cultivated  and  the  wild  garden  of  the  field 
and  wood  like  the  returning  tide  that  first  creeps 
wildly  hither  and  thither,  covering  the  open  flats,  and 
merely  curling  about  the  higher  places,  until  finally 
gathering  sudden  force,  every  bar  and  promontory  is 
suddenly  submerged  by  the  wave  of  colour,  so  that 
we  scarcely  realize  that  the  tide  is  high  until  it  is 
well-nigh  ready  to  ebb  again. 

To-day  for  the  first  time  in  a  month  I  have  sat 
under  the  Mother  Tree,  with  folded  hands,  passively 
drinking  in  the  beauty  of  my  garden  without  feeling 
spurred  to  do  so  much  as  tie  up  a  vine.  The  last  bit 
of  summer  sowing  is  over,  the  planting  of  the  third 
268 


GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     269 

instalment  of  gladiolus  bulbs,  the  other  two  having 
been  set  in  middle  May  and  June  successively.  These 
I  have  grouped  in  close  circles  of  six,  so  that  when 
ready  to  bloom  in  late  September  they  may  be  tied  to 
a  central  stake,  making  a  sort  of  bush  instead  of  hav- 
ing the  military  stiffness  of  single  specimens. 

As  I  leaned  back  against  the  tree  trunk  and 
looked  up  through  the  twigs,  where  the  sun  rays 
fluttered  among  the  leaves,  I  saw  that  a  new  branch, 
as  yet  slender  and  unformed,  is  springing  from  the 
trunk  beside  the  wound  left  by  the  limb  that  was 
rent  in  the  great  snowstorm.  To  me,  the  wonder 
of  perpetual  renewal  is  as  great  as  ever.  That  is  the 
stimulus  of  nature ;  it  is  never,  never  old,  and  always 
developing.  Even  the  scarred,  wrinkled  earth  herself 
is  a  mere  infant  among  the  old  ladies  and  gentlemen 
that  tread  foot-paths  in  the  sky ;  and  I  dare  say  that 
she  is  frequently  rebuked  by  her  sun-mother,  for 
frivolity,  besides  having  to  listen  to  long  tales  of  hap- 
penings in  the  good  old  days  when  she  was  an  imma- 
ture, roly-poly  fire  ball  without  a  rock  in  her  head. 

It  is  delicious  sometimes  to  do  nothing  simply  for 
its  own  sake.  As  I  leaned  luxuriantly  back  and 
alternately  looked  down  the  vista  of  the  long  walk 
toward  the  sun  garden  and  into  the  rose  arbour,  then 
closing  my  eyes  and  merely  breathing  in  fragrance 


270  THE  GARDEN    OF  A 

and  sound,  I  was  no  longer  the  commuter's  wife  who 
breakfasts  at  seven,  and  is  obliged  to,  partly  at  least, 
observe  the  conventionalities,  but  a  Lotus  Eater  lis- 
tening to  the  nightingale.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 
flower  and  bird  inhabit  the  same  country,  but  I'm 
sure  they  ought  to. 

I  did  not  care  a  particle  as  to  which  flowers  gave 
the  perfume  or  what  birds  the  music.  I  was  simply 
saturated  with  both,  and  resolving  not  to  move  until 
afternoon,  I  must  have  fallen  asleep;  for  the  next 
thing  I  knew,  I  was  startled  by  an  emphatic  bump 
on  the  head,  caused  by  a  falling  apple  and  Bertie's 
voice,  which  said,  "  The  young  cabbage-flowers  are  of 
the  beautifullest.  It  should  much  pleasure  you  to  see 
she." 

Vegetables  are  a  most  wholesome  and  necessary 
a.djunct  to  a  flower  garden,  though  of  course  there 
are  people  who  would  transpose  this  sentiment.  I 
went  immediately  to  see  the  cauliflowers,  and  at 
once  became  enveloped  in  a  contrasting  atmosphere 
of  bean  poles,  pea  brush,  tomato  trellis,  and  cab- 
bages, where  mathematical  preciseness  and  the 
straight  lines  of  beets,  carrots,  lettuce,  and  parsley 
drew  my  wandering  vision  into  focus  again.  As  to 
the  cauliflowers,  I  could  honestly  admire  "  she,"  milk- 
white  in  a  crisp  green  setting,  and  surely  the  rosy 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  271 

beets  with  their  colour  running  well  up  into  the  foli- 
age, and  the  delicate,  translucent  green  of  the  long 
heads  of  Trianon  Cos  lettuce  are  beautiful,  while  the 
great  bunches  of  ripening  currants  bring  as  fine  a 
colour  to  the  vegetable  garden  as  the  oriental  poppy 
lends  the  parterre.  Then,  too,  the  vegetable  garden 
has,  to  counteract  the  pungent  breath  of  cauliflower 
and  cabbage,  a  fragrant  bouquet  all  its  own,  that  is 
distilled  nightly  by  the  dew,  the  breath  of  sage, 
thyme,  sweet  marjoram,  basil,  and  lavender. 

Yes,  I  am  a  pagan,  as  I  have  often  suspected.  I 
have  a  material  streak  in  me  that  finds  intense 
satisfaction  in  soup  vegetables  and  pot  herbs  as 
well  as  roses  and  honeysuckle.  Sickness  alone  de- 
prives me  of  my  appetite,  and  I  have  never  yet 
been  so  sad  or  sentimental  that  I  felt  a  loathing 
for  my  luncheon.  I  think  father  and  Evan  encour- 
age this  materialism  in  me,  and  so  does  Martha 
Corkle,  who  sees  that  luncheon  comes  to  me  if 
father  is  not  at  home  and  outdoors  bids  fair  to 
hypnotize  me. 

Father  says  that  hungry  sentiment  develops 
melancholy,  but  well-fed  sentiment,  enthusiasm ;  so  I 
suppose  that  I  must  be  an  enthusiast. 

There  are  four  great  pleasures  of  gardening  —  the 
planting,  the  development,  the  gathering,  and  the 


272  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

distributing.  Each  one  in  its  turn  seems  the  keen- 
est, and  surely  the  last  is  not  the  least;  for  what  is 
life  worth  if  one  has  nothing  to  give  away  ?  This 
lack,  it  seems  to  me,  must  be  the  sharpest  pang  of 
poverty. 

Then,  too,  garden  gifts  are  all  pleasure  —  light 
and  slight  matter-of-course  gifts  that  carry  no  im- 
pediment of  obligation  with  them ;  for  one  may 
give  a  whole  basket  of  home-grown  flowers  when 
a  mere  handful,  if  purchased,  would  be  an  intru- 
sion. Here  again,  in  order  to  fulfil  its  destiny,  the 
garden  must  be  dual,  —  flower  and  vegetable  ;  for 
there  is  always  a  neighbour  whose  peas  are  affected 
with  weevils,  whose  lettuce  has  run  prematurely  to 
seed,  or  a  dear  old  farmer  crank  at  the  hospital 
who  has  fallen  from  the  hay-mow  and  fractured  a 
rib  or  leg  (this  seems  a  favourite  midsummer  pas- 
time of  farmers  past  middle  age ;  the  young  ones 
fall  from  cherry  trees),  who  is  "pining  for  garden 
sass  "  or  a  "  good  dish  of  beets  and  raw  onions  with 
plenty  of  cider  vinegar."  Not  to  mention  my  Lady 
of  the  Bluffs,  who,  I  know  of  old,  would  stray  out 
from  father's  office,  where  she  had  called,  and  levy 
upon  the  necessary  leaf,  fruit,  or  berry  for  some 
desired  entree. 

It   is   strange    oftentimes    to    see  how   little  the 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  273 

gardens  of  the  rich  yield  them,  even  in  satisfaction 
in  proportion  to  the  outlay ;  but  perhaps  it  is  well, 
else  we  middlings  would  have  no  ground  upon 
which  to  meet  them,  which  would  deprive  us  of 
much  merriment. 


I  lunched  in  the  garden  to-day,  and  Martha  served 
me  with  her  own  hands,  a  mark  of  attention  denoting 
either  special  favour  or  a  desire  for  the  opportunity 
of  private  discourse.  Really  she  is  not  as  plump  as 
she  was,  and  though  she  says  nothing,  I  sometimes 
feel  the  ghost  of  the  "  'ome-brewed  "  is  between  us. 

She  arranged  the  little  table  that  we  keep  under 
the  rose  arbour  for  after-dinner  coffee  quite  deftly 
in  the  breeziest  corner,  and  had  brought  out  the 
tray  before  I  realized  what  she  was  about.  But  as 
my  look  of  inquiry  was  unanswered,  I  asked  more  as 
a  form  than  from  a  desire  for  information,  "Where 
is  Delia?" 

"She  is  not  feeling  exactly  herself,  Mrs.  Evan," 
Martha  replied,  stopping  short  with  pursed-up  lips, 
evidently  hesitating  between  merely  answering  the 
question  and  opening  a  conversation. 

"  I  wonder  why  she  didn't  tell  me  she  was  ill," 
I  said  half  to  myself. 


274  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

"  I'll  not  go  so  far  as  to  call  her  hill,  Mrs.  Evan, 
but  shook  up  and  scattered  like,  and  she  took  the 
chance  of  slippin'  down  to  speak  with  the  priest 
about  it,  while  he  would  be  in  at  his  dinner,  the 
same  which  I  call  a  liberty,  having  ought  to  ask 
you." 

Shaken  ?  scattered  ?  priest  ?  I  could  not  unravel 
the  matter,  so  I  told  Martha  to  explain,  as  she  was 
so  evidently  anxious  to  do. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Mrs.  Evan,  for  it's  not 
listening  and  tattling  to  repeat  what  is  spoken 
aloud  to  those  who  has  a  right  to  hear.  When 
Delia  broke  with  Patrick  Doolan  the  night  before 
she  thought  to  hear  the  banns  read,  she  was  glad 
enough  for  a  while,  free  in  her  mind  and  well  con- 
tent to  be  rid  of  him.  After  a  time,  howsomever, 
the  waste  of  her  wedding  gown,  as  it  were,  set  heavy 
on  her;  for  you  see,  Mrs.  Evan,  it  were  all  made 
and  ready  even  to  the  neck  frill,  blue  silk  trimmed 
out  with  white  lace,  and  a  white  hat,  with  a 
plume  that  long "  (measuring  the  length  of  her 
arm)  "all  curled  up  around  it. 

"  I  said  as  there  were  other  men  to  marry,  to  com- 
fort her,  as  it  were ;  but  she  says,  '  Mrs.  Corkle, 
what's  other  men  to  me  so  long  as  they  doesn't 
ask  me,  and  my  dress  going  out  of  style  from 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  275 

backs  coming  in  fuller,  which  can't  be  changed, 
it  being  a  remnant?'  The  same  being  quite  the 
truth,  Mrs.  Evan. 

"Then  she  took  down-hearted,  and  news  kept 
comin'  to  her  that  Patrick  had  never  done  a  day's 
work  since  Hallowe'en  and  was  drinking  most 
shocking.  '  I  never  thought  he  was  that  fond  o' 
me,'  she'd  keep  saying,  and  rocking  to  and  fro, 
'and  it's  I  that  was  a  fool  to  throw  away  me  luck, 
and  a  fine  house,  too.' 

"'I  kenned  it  was  yersel'  was  throwed,  hoose 
and  a','  said  Timothy  Saunders,  unfortunate-like, 
one  night.  So  for  a  while  she  kept  her  trouble 
to  herself,  out  of  stiff  pride. 

"Last  night  I  was  sitting  down  to  my  needle, 
when  some  one  knocked,  and  I  opened  the  door  to 
a  respectable  looking  body  dressed  out  quite  decent 
in  black.  Before  I  learned  her  business  she  was 
past  me,  to  where  Delia  sat  at  the  machine,  and 
a-kneeling  before  her,  crying  and  '  taking  on  not 
fit  or  proper  for  a  woman  of  her  years. 

"  Mrs.  Evan,  if  it  was  not  old  Mrs.  Doolan  beg- 
ging Delia  to  marry  her  son  to  save  him  from  death 
by  drink  and  disappointment,  then  Corkle  isn't  dead 
and  I  his  widow  ! 

"  Mrs.  Evan,  Delia  gave  her  promise  all  too  ready- 


2/6  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

like,  I'm  thinking,  and  the  two  went  out  crying  to- 
gether, to  run  down  Patrick,  whose  whereabouts  I 
mistrusted  was  undecided." 

"  Is  the  old  woman  going  to  give  them  the  farm  ? " 
I  asked,  quite  confounded  at  the  turn  of  affairs,  for 
I  thought  Bertie  was  consoling  Delia. 

"  That  she  is  not !  She  says  that  Delia  may  live 
in  with  her,  and  that  she'll  not  object  to  her  takin' 
up  work  in  the  shop,  if  she  feels  like  keepin'  inde- 
pendent." Here  a  fine  sneer  of  derision  curved 
Martha's  nostrils. 

"And  the  boil-down  of  it  all  is  that  Delia  is 
going  to  be  fool  enough  not  only  to  marry  a 
man  what's  at  best  a  burnt  match,  and  now  con- 
fessed always  in  liquor,  but  she's  going  in  with 
the  old  party,  Mrs.  Evan,  who  will  undertake  to 
see  her  work  to  keep  him  idle."  Here  Martha 
gave  the  tray  a  little  push  toward  me,  as  if  she 
thought  it  time  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I  will  speak  to  father :  he  will  never  allow 
Delia  to  throw  herself  away  like  this." 

"  Best  not,  Mrs.  Evan.  The  doctor  is  clever,  no 
doubt,  but  this  marryin'  rascals  is  a  disease  beyond 
him,  especially  when  the  parties  is  Irish,  for  I 
knows  them  well  and  thorough  ;  they  blows  hot  and 
cold  so  quick,  it  keeps  bothers  all  of  a  shiver,  and 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  277 

when  you  reaches  out  the  'elpin'  'ands,  it's  not  me 
nor  you  can  tell  if  it's  a  kiss  or  a  knife  they'll  meet. 

"  What  does  concern  me  is  this,  the  seein'  you 
inconvenienced  by  changes  in  hot  weather,  Mrs. 
Evan.  Delia  should  give  her  proper  month's 
warning,  but  instead  she's  took  her  bank-book 
and  gone  down  to  the  priest  to  get  him  to  speak 
with  Patrick  and  hurry  the  wedding  without  the 
calling  of  banns,  if  it  may  so  be. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Evan,  Timothy  Saunders's  sister's 
girl,  Effie,  is  leaving  service  in  Canada  and  is 
looking  to  crossing  to  the  States,  having  written 
her  uncle  to  speak  for  her  where  he  is  acquainted. 
Which  same  I  bid  him  do,  but  he  being  so  back- 
ward, I'll  venture  it  for  him,  that  you  might  try 
her,  the  same  making  less  of  a  mixed  family,  you 
know,  ma'am." 

I  assented,  thanked  Martha,  and  she  departed. 
As  the  luncheon  was  a  cold  one,  it  had  not  suffered 
by  delay.  An  egg  and  lettuce  salad,  waferlike 
sandwiches  of  ham  and  chicken,  strawberries 
heaped  on  their  own  leaves,  hulls  on,  with  sugar 
to  dip  them  in,  and  a  glass  of  milk.  As  I  ate 
leisurely,  thinking  of  Delia  the  while,  Bluff  came 
up  for  crusty  bits,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  The 
Orphan  seated  himself  at  a  distance  and  sniffed 


278  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

until  I  called  him.  That  last  arrival  is .  a  curious 
character  study,  a  self-made  dog,  deserving  admira- 
tion for  his  reserve,  but  much  like  a  person  whom 
it  takes  years  to  outlive  a  youth  of  deprivation. 
When  he  first  came  to  us,  after  living  between  coal- 
box  and  wall  in  the  flagman's  house,  he  did  not 
understand  having  space  to  move  about  in,  and  so 
he  continually  backed  solemnly  into  corners.  I  love 
Bluff,  but  I  can  only  respect  The  Orphan,  who  is 
old  before  his  time,  and  while  faithful,  yet  is  too 
humble,  and  lacks  the  spontaneity  that  makes  young 
children  and  animals  lovable. 

The  air  grew  cooler  in  the  early  afternoon  and 
light  clouds  gave  a  grateful  half-veiled  atmosphere 
that  coaxed  me  to.  leave  the  tree  and  stroll  to  the  sun 
garden.  Our  scheme  of  grouping  the  spectrum 
colours  about  the  dial  is  a  complete  success,  for  the 
zinnias  are  blooming  evenly  and  the  blue  centaurea 
matching  them  in  height,  the  effect  is  at  once  rich 
and  unusual.  Amid  all  the  wealth  of  colour,  the 
blaze  of  light  reflected  from  low-growing  portulacca, 
nasturtium,  geraniums,  and  the  first  buds  of  many- 
hued  hollyhocks,  it  is  through  the  nose  more  than 
the  eye  that  I  am  guided  to  where  lowering  clouds 
are  casting  a  few  drops  upon  the  bed  of  sweet 
odours,  thus  completing  the  fragrant  spell. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  279 

Without  such  a  bed  no  garden  is  completely 
gracious,  and  yet  few  there  are,  pretentious  or 
humble,  that  have  one.  When  Evan  designed  the 
beds  of  the  sun  garden,  he  said  that  the  tire  of  the 
fiery  wheel  should  be  of  subdued  colours,  shaded 
greens  or  at  most  half  tones.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  that  the  dreaded  coleus  would  be  inevitable ; 
then  my  Familiar  Spirit  whispered,  "  Let  this  circle 
be  your  bed  of  sweet  odours." 

There  are  comparatively  few  wholly  scentless 
flowers,  while  there  are  many  like  hyacinths  and 
the  ranker  lilies  whose  heavy  perfume  closes  the 
house  door  upon  them.  These  last,  however,  have  a 
very  limited  period  of  bloom,  while  the  plants  chosen 
for  my  bed  of  sweet  odours  breathe  fragrance  from 
frost  going  until  its  return  and  even  after. 

There  are  only  three  colours  but  many  tints  in  this 
bed  of  mine,  green,  —  silvery,  velvety,  and  glossy ; 
violet,  purple,  and  ruddy-gold.  The  plants  are, 
reckoned  from  tallest  downwards,  lemon  verbena, 
rose,  nutmeg,  and  apple  geraniums,  heliotrope  of 
violet  to  mauve,  annual  wall-flowers  of  warm  yellow, 
and  mignonette;  this  last  being  of  three  kinds, — 
Mammoth,  Parson's  white,  and  Machette. 

Though  the  plants  were  set  in  rows  each  of  a  kind, 
with  the  shrubby  lemon  verbenas  as  a  ridge-pole, 


280  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

and  the  mignonette  edging  the  whole,  by  middle 
June  they  were  so  blended  that  the  earth  was  com- 
pletely hidden.  Now  with  the  greenery  in  luxurious 
leaf,  heliotrope  and  mignonette  in  bloom,  this  bed 
holds  more  subtle  fascination  than  any  other. 
Heliotrope  is  best  enjoyed  at  morning  and  evening, 
when  the  dew  holds  its  fragrance  earthward,  for 
when  gathered  it  withers  quickly,  and  if  mingled  with 
other  flowers  in  vase  or  jar,  blackens  and  seems  to 
poison  the  water,  causing  the  whole  posy  to  droop. 
In  its  bed  it  is  one  of  the  generous  contributions  to 
the  charm  of  the  garden  of  night  that  lures  us 
abroad  under  the  summer  moon. 

For  the  rest,  the  bed  of  sweet  odours  is  most 
pickable,  and  its  foliage  gives  the  crowning  touch  of 
sympathy  to  each  bouquet.  For  tea  roses  I  choose 
geranium  leaves ;  for  sweet  peas,  a  fringe  of  migno- 
nette, with  long  sprays  of  lemon  verbena  for  asters 
and  old-fashioned  hardy  blossoms;  while  the  wall- 
flowers should  flock  quite  alone,  bunched  in  small 
glass  globes,  that  they  may  lose  nothing  of  their 
potency.  I  have  grown  this  last  flower  a  dozen  years, 
and  yet  it  seems  either  quite  unknown,  or  else  set 
aside  for  its  more  showy  perennial  brother,  that  in 
this  climate  needs  winter  housing.  This  humble 
annual,  if  sown  early  and  if  the  season  is  not  too 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  281 

wet,  blooms  from  July  until  snow  hides  it,  and  I 
once  remember  gathering  a  delicious  bunch  on  a 
Christmas  morning. 

In  a  nook  of  this  darling  bed  of  mine  hides  a 
silvery  cut-leaved  plant,  a  mascot  that  I  hope 
will  thrive  and  soon  hold  a  braver  place.  This 
plant  is  rosemary,  the  flower  of  remembrance.  I 
brought  this  little  root  from  Shottery,  "and  it  is 
planted  here  in  remembrance  of  the  glory  of  the 
literature  of  the  mother  tongue  and  of  all  true 
lovers. 

If  flowers  make  a  garden,  so  also  do  the  greens 
that  form  their  setting,  and  I  now  find  the  wild 
space  beyond  the  sun  garden  inseparable  from  the 
cultivated  in  this  matter.  The  madonna  lilies  now 
in  perfect  bloom,  when  gathered,  need  delicate 
maidenhair  and  lady  ferns  for  company,  while  holly- 
hocks set  in  the  great  India  jars  should  emerge 
from  a  mass  of  vigorous  brakes  in  order  to  hide 
their  usual  shabbiness  of  stalk. 

July  1 6.  Full  moon,  and  both  single  and  double 
hollyhocks  at  height.  All  day  long  the  garden  is 
a-bloom  under  full  pressure  of  the  sun  and  frequent 
showers,  and  the  bright  moon  so  carries  day  into 
night  that  we  often  stay  out  until  the  striking  of 
the  magic  hour,  and  even  then  I  linger  at  my  lat- 


282  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

tice  window,  for  below  lies  the  moonlit  garden,  an 
etching  framed  by  trees. 

For  a  week  past  Evan  and  I  have  been  wan- 
dering  in  the  garden  of  night,  as  we  call  it,  and 
continually  meeting  surprises  in  familiar  places. 
One  of  the  alcoves  in  the  border  of  the  long  walk 
is  filled  with  yellow  evening  primroses  mingled  with 
the  starry,  long-tubed  flowers  of  white  tobacco 
(nicotiana  affinis\  Both  of  these  open  at  sunset, 
a  time  when  sweet  peas  furl  their  butterfly  wings 
and  many  other  plants  contract  both  flower  and 
leaf;  then  all  through  the  night  they  give  forth  the 
fragrance  that  lures  their  insect  lovers,  so  that 
above  them  is  a  perpetual  flight  of  moths,  while 
the  blending  of  gold  and  silver  under  the  moon- 
spell  defies  description.  The  most  gorgeous  of  red, 
crimson,  pink,  blue,  and  purple  flowers  grow  dark 
at  night  in  proportion  to  their  daytime  richness, 
and  it  is  to  the  light  colours  alone  that  the  garden 
then  owes  its  beauty. 

Night  before  last  we  were  wandering  about  the 
garden,  peering  in  corners  where  masses  of  holly- 
hocks that  had  strayed  without  border  bounds  re- 
flected moonlight  from  their  disks,  and  great  spiders 
spread  their  webs  across  open  spaces  and  hung  in 
waiting,  savagely  patient  while  the  dew  turned  their 
homespun  into  cloth  of  gold. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  283 

Suddenly  a  snapping  noisfe  seemed  to  drop  from 
a  spruce  tree  overhead.  There  was  a  ponderous 
flapping  of  wings  and  a  note  of  warning  that 
sounded  like  the  passing  of  a  broom  across  a  sanded 
floor.  The  tree  was  half  in  deep  shadow,  but  after 
a  few  moments  we  could  see  the  outline  of  some 
stocky  birds  that  were  sitting  in  a  row  upon  a  limb 
close  to  the  trunk.  Another  cry,  a  flapping  and 
shifting,  and  we  named  them  screech  owls,  and  their 
number  five,  evidently  two  parents  and  three  owlets. 
Then  the  dance  began. 

If  I  had  ever  doubted  the  capacity  of  animals 
for  play,  I  should  now  be  converted.  Of  course  a 
habit  of  gambolling  is  common  enough  among  dogs, 
cats,  and  the  intelligent  quadrupeds,  but  I  had  never 
before  suspected  the  solemn  owl  of  such  humour, 
and  shall  in  future  regard  it  as  a  professional  wag 
of  great  ability. 

At  first  the  old  birds  mystified  their  children  by 
separating  and  giving  the  "  get  to  cover  "  cry  from 
separate  trees.  This  seemed  to  be  by  way  of 
emergency  drill,  and  lasted  half  an  hour,  until  at 
the  signal  the  youngsters  stopped  flopping  about 
aimlessly  and  flew  direct 

They  were  quite  fearless  and  did  not  object  to 
our  presence  in  the  least  In  fact,  as  we  tried  to 


284  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

follow  their  erratic  course  through  the  garden  and 
wood  lot,  and  along  the  grassy  walk  that,  edged 
by  daisies,  seemed  a  pathway  to  the  moon  direct, 
they  seemed  to  take  delight  in  seeing  how  nearly  it 
was  possible  to  fly  into  our  faces  without  absolutely 
touching  us. 

Once  safe  in  the  fastness  of  hemlocks  and  spruces, 
their  tactics  changed.  Perching  five  in  a  row  upon 
a  downward  sloping  branch,  they  pushed  and  jostled 
each  other  until  the  one  nearest  the  end  was  crowded 
off.  Instantly  it  flew  to  the  top  of  the  line  and 
took  its  turn  at  edging,  until  each  had  slipped  off 
many  times.  When  at  last  they  became  tired  of 
this  aerial  coasting,  they  silently  disappeared  in  the 
darkness  of  the  woods. 

July  22.  The  owl  play  still  continues  nightly,  and 
Evan  and  I  take  part  in  it  and  likewise  gain  a  fine 
view  of  their  antics  by  flashing  a  small  electric 
search-light  into  the  deep  shadows,  thus  catching 
grotesque  poses  and  their  amazed  and  dazed  expres- 
sions. Last  night  two  of  the  owlets  ventured  close 
to  the  house,  and  sat  for  some  time  a-top  the  clothes 
poles,  turning  their  heads  about  so  completely  that 
they  threatened  to  wring  their  own  necks  ;  then  snap- 
ping their  beaks,  they  crooned,  and  conversed  quite 
plainly  in  high  class  owl,  much  to  Bluff's  indigna- 


THE    GRASSY    WALK   THVT   EDGED   BY   DAISIES  SEEMED  A 
PATHWAY   TO   THE   MOON 


and  jostled 
vas  crowded 

;  had  slipped  off 

Became   tired   of 

ared  in  the 

1!  continues  nightly,  and 

v  gain  a  fine 

\iall    electric 

as   catching 

• 

1  close 
p  the  clothes 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  285 

tion,  until  he  howled  furiously  and  dashed  at  the 
poles  so  desperately  that  they  lurched  away,  uttering 
unmistakable  swear  words. 


This  is  hollyhock  week,  and  the  forest  of  gayly 
draped  stalks  flanks  half  the  length  of  the  long  walk, 
overflows  the  corner  of  the  bank  wall,  and  straggles 
in  a  crowd  toward  the  barn,  where  it  forms  a  hollow 
square  about  the  chicken  house.  The  hollyhock 
disports  all  colours  and  tints, — white,  pink,  cerise, 
crimson,  apricot,  yellow,  and  blush,  both  with  a 
decided  pink  eye  and  a  rosily  diffused  centre. 

Having  been  let  alone  for  several  years,  the  single 
or  half  double  flowers  predominate,  and  I  am  quite 
sure  that  I  prefer  them  to  the  heavy  double  blossoms, 
whose  chief  claim  is  their  solidity  of  form  and  colour ; 
otherwise  they  are  nearer  kin  to  the  paper  roses  that 
garnish  Christmas  mutton  than  to  garden  flowers. 

The  phloxes  that  have  massed  themselves  regard- 
less of  colour,  are  showing  bloom,  —  white,  crimson, 
white  with  crimson  eye,  and  dull  purple.  Neither  in 
colour  nor  form  are  they  as  handsome  as  the  young 
plants  we  set  out  last  October,  among  which  many 
new  shades  of  cherry,  salmon,  and  rose  appear. 

Phloxes  especially  require  frequent  resetting,  else 


286  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

they  crowd  themselves  out,  the  flower  clusters  grow 
small,  while  they  lapse  to  the  parent  colours  from 
which  they  were  hybridized  more  rapidly  than  other 
hardy  plants.  Now  are  the  nasturtiums  rampant,  and 
their  trellis  seems  consumed  with  a  flame  that  reach- 
ing over  has  caught  the  salvia  tips.  The  annuals  that 
I  bought  from  the  "Yellow  Journal"  catalogue  are 
making  a  fine  showing,  having  an  alcove  all  to  them- 
selves, and  Evan  almost  acknowledges  that  the 
Pekin  Perfection  Carnation  Poppy  is  gorgeous,  "at 
least  at  present,"  he  added  cynically. 

The  first  planting  of  gladiolus  is  in  bloom,  and  I 
have  been  surprised  and  fascinated  by  the  beauty  of 
the  new  hybrids.  Here,  too,  the  range  of  colour 
covers  everything  but  blue,  and  the  exquisitely  shaded 
and  veined  flowers,  no  longer  contracted  and  stiff, 
but  winged  and  poised  gracefully  on  the  stalks,  seem 
more  like  a  new  discovery  than  a  development. 

The  moon  gets  up  late  nowadays,  having  a  slant- 
wise, rakish  look,  and  I  am  often  tempted  to  leave 
bed  for  my  window  where  I  could  sit  for  hours  listen- 
ing to  the  owlets'  shivery  laugh  and  looking  down 
at  the  groups  of  striped  and  spotted  eulalia  that 
shimmer  like  fountains  in  the  moonlight.  Delia, 
who  is  to  be  married  on  Sunday  evening,  she  having 
failed  to  get  her  dispensation  owing  to  the  reluctance 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  287 

of  the  bridegroom,  has  asked  me  to  have  the  owls 
killed,  as,  if  they  cross  her  path  the  night  of  the 
wedding,  ill  luck  will  surely  follow  her.  A  nice  way 
to  cast  the  sure  result  of  her  own  folly  upon  Fate 
impersonated  by  me !  But  the  owls  are  quite  safe. 


The  improvident  song  sparrows  that  built  in  the 
rose  spray  have  not  learned  wisdom  by  experience. 
Yesterday  afternoon  as  the  wind  that  foretells  a 
shower  was  sweeping  the  garden,  Bertie  discovered 
their  second  nest,  in  which  were  three  young  birds. 
It  was  set  squarely  upon  a  broad  corymb  of  feverfew 
which,  having  gone  to  seed,  was  ready  to  snap  at 
any  moment  and  the  other  foliage  that  had  sheltered 
it  was  beaten  down.  Silly  sparrows !  In  whose  gar- 
den were  you  raised  ?  Were  there  no  honest  bushes 
there  ? 

We  slipped  an  improvised  platform  under  the 
nest  and  braced  it  with  four  corner  stakes  using  an 
inverted  strawberry  box  as  a  canopy,  making  a 
structure  that,  as  Evan  said,  looked  like  the  judge's 
box  on  a  race  track.  The  birds  seemed  satisfied, 
however,  and  stayed  by  the  nest,  which  was  thus 
enabled  to  weather  the  storm. 

I  believe  that  those  sparrows  were  orphans  and 


288  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

double  first  cousins  raised  by  a  maiden  aunt  in  a  gar- 
den of  flimsy  foliage  beds.  Nothing  else  can  justify 
their  dementia.  I  wonder  if  they  will  make  another 
nesting  venture  this  season  and  where  it  will  be. 


July  29.  Delia  was  married  at  seven  last  even- 
ing. The  gods  were  not  propitious,  for  it  rained, 
though  of  course  the  fact  that  the  wedding  gown 
was  still  fashionable  was  the  main  thing. 

A  funereal  city  hack  containing  the  groom  and 
bridesmaid  came  to  the  side  door,  and  as  I  bade 
Delia  good-by,  in  pity  I  pretended  not  to  see  that 
the  redness  of  the  groom's  face  was  from  other 
causes  than  bashfulness.  The  bride  was  white  as 
her  ostrich  plume,  and  unluckily,  as  they  drove  out 
the  gate,  a  mischievous  owl  gave  a  perfectly  audible 
though  distant  hoot. 

Mrs.  Mullins  dropped  in  this  morning  to  "give 
me  the  news"  and  a  fragment  of  very  boggy 
wedding  cake. 

"  Sure,  Miss  Barbara  darlint,  'tis  bad  to  be  shifty 
moinded  altogether,  and  that's  what  them  three  are, 
mother,  son,  and  Dalia.  I'm  looking  for  loively 
times  betuchen  them.  'Six  to  one,'  says  I  to  Mullins, 
'  if  Dalia  isn't  in  the  onion  fields  agin  spring,  like  the 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  289 

old  woman  used  herself !  Then  do  yer  mind  the 
three  bad  omens,  darlint  ? " 

"The  rain  and  the  owl,"  I  answered,  "but  what 
was  the  third  ? " 

"  Oh,  wherra !  wherra !  Crowin'  hens  is  common, 
but  the  likes  o'  the  last  doin's  is  seldom  known, 
though  I  onct  heard  it  out  o'  County  Kerry,  that 
same  bein'  next  me  own.' 

"  Old  woman  Doolan  she  mischanced  to  raise  a 
pair  o'  crowin'  hens  lasht  fall,  and  all  the  neighbours 
has  beseeched  her  to  kill  them  lest  ill  luck  befall  the 
sittlement,  goin'  so  far  as  to  beg  the  priest  to  inter- 
fere. But  not  an  axe  would  she  take  to  them,  they 
bein'  foine  layers. 

"  What's  amiss  wid  crowin'  hens  ?  Shure  now, 
that's  aisy.  Ye  know  well  the  cock  that  crew  three 
times  and  give  the  lie  to  St.  Peter  to  his  shamin'  ? 
Well,  the  blessed  saint  cursed  him  well  for  his  impu- 
dence and  turned  him  to  a  hen,  the  mother  o'  the 
whole  lot,  and  that's  why,  himself  doing  it,  the  curse 
holds  that  firm  that  holy  water  itself  can't  dissholve 
it. 

"Now  what  does  the  old  devil  do,  unbeknownst 
but  only  to  me  on  account  of  the  knot-hole,  she 
being  stingy,  but  kill  thim  hins  for  the  weddin' 
f aste !  Did  ye  ever  hear  the  loikes  ?  For  we  all 


290    GARDEN    OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

knows  that  of  a  sprinklin'  o'  holy  water  even  won't 
break  the  power  o'  crowin'  hens,  'tis  a  mortal  sin  to 
touch  them.  So,  says  I  to  meself,  'It's  the  same 
as  aitin'  death';  and  though  they  was  biled  and 
dressed  wid  onions,  I  come  from  the  feast  fastin', 
but  Dalia  she  ate  her  fill!" 


XV 

AUGUST 

A   PLEA   FOR   A   WILD    LAWN 

August  5.  Effie  has  come  and  dropped  so 
quickly  into  our  needs  and  ways  that  even  the 
good  points  possessed  by  Delia,  being  at  best  "  writ 
in  water,"  are  quite  obliterated.  Effie  has  lived 
for  two  years  in  medical  families  overseas,  one 
being  that  of  a  real  M.D.  and  surgeon,  the  other 
only  a  medical  man.  I  wish  that  I  could  compass 
this  English  professional  distinction,  but  I  cannot. 
However,  as  far  as  Effie  is  concerned,  it  suffices  to 
say  that  she  is  fully  impressed  with  the  importance 
of  remembering  a  message  and  writing  the  names 
and  needs  of  callers  upon  the  record  pad  in  a  firm 
angular  hand  which  is  one  of  the  best  results  of 
the  public  education  of  British  females.  Likewise 
she  has  the  gift  of  afternoon  tea  making,  knowing 
after  a  single  lesson  the  quality  of  August  day  when 
cracked  ice  and  lemon  should  be  served  instead  of 
milk,  and  quite  agreeing  with  my  taste,  that  many 
191 


292  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

consider  whimsical,  which  prefers  good  milk  to 
cream,  as  the  latter  cloys  the  palate  and  destroys 
the  flavour  of  really  fine  tea. 

I  am  glad  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  my  Gar- 
den Boke  ever  falling  under  the  eye  of  a  critic  even 
as  comprehensive  as  Evan,  for  the  question  would 
surely  rise,  Why  so  much  of  domestic  affairs  in  an 
outdoor  annal  ?  As  both  in-  and  out-door  life  are 
equal  members  of  the  body  vital,  they  must  be  in 
perfect  harmony  to  produce  that  even  mental  cir- 
culation known  as  happiness.  The  mutual  discom- 
fort of  having  either  state  awry  is  as  unsatisfactory 
as  warming  one's  fingers  at  a  cheerful  blaze  at  the 
same  time  that  one's  feet  are  in  a  tub  of  ice  water. 


The  garden  is  en  fete  these  days.  In  an  equable 
season  like  this,  August  is  the  gala  of  the  spring- 
sown  annuals  as  well  as  of  many  perennials  of  the 
hot  summer  colours. 

Scarlet,  and  its  allied  tints,  that  started  with  the 
oriental  poppies,  is  now  represented  by  the  vivid 
nasturtium  and  geranium  hues,  shooting  its  tongue 
of  flame  in  salvias  and  gladioli,  while  the  phloxes 
that  outline  the  long  walk  are  now  at  their  best 
and  run  through  all  the  shades  of  lake  and  car- 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  293 

mine  to  purplish  lavender,  the  same  colours  appear- 
ing  as  eyes  in  the  white  varieties. 

Yet  even  where  scarlet  and  magenta  almost  meet,  the 
antagonism  is  averted  and  turned  to  barbaric  splen- 
dour by  the  groups  of  glowing  golden  rudbeckia 
that  combines  in  its  blooms  the  richest  of  sun- 
flower colour,  with  Dahlia  solidity,  and  the  long 
stems  of  specimen  chrysanthemums.  \ 

The  auratum  lilies  planted  last  November  are 
coming  forward  finely.  They  were  grouped  mainly 
in  the  bulb  beds  below  the  study  windows,  where 
they  came  the  earliest  in  bloom.  But  for  an  ex- 
periment I  scattered  a  couple  of  dozen  bulbs  at 
random,  through  the  beds  of  the  long  walk,  and 
the  effect  of  the  great  golden-banded,  ruby-spotted 
flowers  is  magical,  giving  depth  of  focus  to  the 
maze  of  phlox,  as  well  as  the  thrill  of  oriental 
suggestion  that  the  lily  and  iris  tribes  always 
bring  with  them.  In  an  old-fashioned  garden 
such  as  mine,  this  result  must  be  by  suggestion 
only ;  for  if  it  is  allowed  to  dominate,  it  becomes 
incongruous,  and  would  wholly  denationalize  the 
garden.  This  is  why  Evan  bars  palms,  caladiums, 
castor  beans,  and  all  such  growths,  only  allowing 
the  graceful  eulalias  as  an  equivalent  of  the  humbler 
old-time  ribbon  grass. 


294  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

August  8.  This  is  the  month  for  gathering 
flowers,  not  as  individuals,  but  in  masses,  when  a 
sickle  is  often  more  serviceable  than  scissors.  In 
fact,  this  morning  I  possessed  myself  of  a  mass  of 
phlox  and  golden  glow  in  this  manner,  and  filled 
the  study  fireplace  with  them  most  effectively  with- 
out rearrangement,  using  an  old  stoneware  jug, 
to  hold  the  water.  So  often  the  best  effects  in 
decoration  come  from  transferring  the  flowers 
indoors  without  disturbing  their  natural  pose. 
Gather  an  armful  of  goldenrod,  for  instance,  put 
it  in  a  jar,  with  only  a  loosening  shake  to  adjust 
it,  and  the  most  careful  spray  by  spray  arrange- 
ment will  not  yield  equal  grace. 

The  dogs  are  happy  again,  being  free  of  the 
garden,  for  now  that  the  ground  is  everywhere 
covered,  instinct  seems  to  keep  them  to  the  walk, 
and  Bluff  hardly  gives  a  tail  wag  of  apology,  when 
he  joins  me,  stepping  carefully  between  the  rows, 
or  sitting  gazing  at  me  with  apparent  interest, 
as  I  fill  my  basket  from  the  beds  of  the  long 
walk. 


That  we  have   the    poor   always  with    us,  is   one 
of  the  most  daily   evident  of  the  Master's   truths, 


TAIL.  WAG  OF  APOLOGY 


294 


THE  GARDEN   OF  A 


August  8. 
:rs,  not  as 

phlo, 
the  s- 
out 
to   h 

ment 

' 

gard 
covered,  > 

and   I      Q 
he  j. 

or    sii-' 


This    is    the    month    for    gat'r 
•o.  but  in   masses,  u' 


glow   in   this   ma: 
with  them  most  effe. 
E^   using    an    old 

often  the  best  e£ 
transferring    the    flowers 
their    natural 
'or  instanc 

adjust 
spray   a: 


en  the  rows, 

*erest, 

of   die   long 


So  OAW  JAT  A  23^10 
That  we  have    t«e    poor 
of  the  mo  the  Master's   i 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  295 

especially  if  the  term  is  allowed,  as  it  must  be, 
to  cover  the  inefficient.  The  illustrations  in  point 
usually  come  to  me  from  the  hospital  or  the  fac- 
tory cottages,  but  once  again  the  offenders  belong 
to  the  world  of  garden  birds.  Those  poor  mis- 
guided song  sparrows  have  built  their  third  nest, 
three  feet  above  ground  in  a  bush  of  golden  glow, 
at  the  junction  of  a  twisted  stalk  with  the  support- 
ing string  and  stake!  This  morning  I  well-nigh 
dumped  out  the  four  eggs  in  trying  to  straighten 
the  plant. 

I  had  a  mind  to  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  who 
would  risk  the  lives  of  four  possible  song  sparrows 
that  may  return  and  bring  joy  to  a  gloomy  March 
day,  for  the  sake  of  giving  their  parents  a  moral 
lesson  ? 

Not  Barbara,  surely,  so  I  made  a  very  neat  struc- 
ture of  double  mosquito  net,  a  sort  of  skeleton  nest, 
and  fastened  it  by  the  corners  to  four  slender  bam- 
boo stakes,  very  much  as  a  redwing  blackbird  hangs 
his  home  between  the  reeds. 

With  Bertie's  aid  I  slipped  it  under  the  toppling 
nest  so  that  it  was  made  secure  without  altering  its 
location.  The  sparrows  did  not  seem  alarmed  in  the 
slightest,  and  this  afternoon  they  are  alternately 
brooding  and  feeding  cheerfully  upon  the  crumbs  of 


296  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

dog  biscuit  that  are  always  plentiful  about  the  ken. 
nels.  I  must  tell  Tim  that  this  biscuit  makes  the 
best  bird  food  that  he  can  scatter  about  the  barnyard 
and  hayricks  in  winter. 

I'm  wondering  if  these  are  Severely  Protestant, 
clerical  song  sparrows  who  think  the  world  owes 
them  a  living,  and  so  thrust  their  progeny  at  it  alms- 
basinwise !  Well,  I  think  it  does,  as  far  as  the  spar- 
rows go,  when  you  take  their  joy-giving  qualities  into 
consideration,  which  is  certainly  less  often  the  case 
with  their  human  prototypes. 


Three  new  blossoms  are  this  month  added  to  the 
garden  of  night,  —  one,  the  moo'n  flower,  a  half  hardy 
convolvulus,  festooning  some  poles  that  are  joined  by 
light  rods  on  either  side  of  the  long  walk,  while  the 
other  two  are  silvery  pink  petunias  and  white,  pink, 
and  yellow  four-o'clocks  that  fill  in  the  alcove  be- 
tween the  evening  primroses  and  nicotiana. 

The  sweet  peas  still  yield  even  more  flowers  than  I 
can  comfortably  pick,  and  Evan  comes  to  my  aid 
every  evening,  though  very  soon  now  our  after-din- 
ner gardening  will  have  to  be  done  by  either  moon  or 
lantern  light. 

I   wish  that  I  could  have  an  interview  with  the 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  297 

Equinoxes  and  the  Chief  Engineer  of  the  Earth's 
Orbit,  and  persuade  them  to  alter  its  grade,  especially 
on  the  curves,  so  that  all  the  long  days  might  be 
bunched  between  May  first  and  October,  and  thus 
some  hours  of  light  be  stolen  from  March  and  April 
for  the  benefit  of  August  and  September. 

The  dark  mornings  and  evenings  of  early  fall  and 
winter  are  one  of  the  trials  of  the  commuter  and  his 
wife  that  can  only  be  overcome  by  a  large  supply  of 
"sweetness  and  light." 

The  garden  of  books,  to  be  sure,  mitigates  and  con- 
soles the  evening  end,  but  as  for  the  morning  from 
November  to  March,  even  the  always  questionable 
consolation  of  the  fact  that  the  "  early  bird  catches 
the  worm"  is  quite  valueless.  The  commuter 
who  lives  at  a  reasonable  distance  can  only 
console  himself  with  knowing  that  he  has  had  at 
least  an  hour  more  sleep  than  if  he  lived  in  town, 
and  his  wife's  reward  lies  in  her  power  to  keep  her 
promise  of  sending  him  off  well  nourished  and  trim, 
no  list  of  errands  in  his  pocket,  no  egg  on  his  mus- 
tache, and  no  crumb,  but  merely  an  invisible  kiss  on 
his  chin. 

Alack  that  this  short  time  between  seven  and  eight 
A.M.  should  be  the  downfall  of  so  many  well-ordered 
lives !  Last  winter  after  the  great  storm  Evan 


298  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

christened  this  time  the  "  philosophical  hour,"  saying 
that  as  under  modern  pressure  one  needs  to  give  an 
hour  out  of  every  twenty-four  to  this  cult,  the  earlier 
it  comes  in  the  day,  the  better. 


August  20.  I  have  realized  anew  the  almost 
spiritual  beauty  of  the  common  morning-glory.  I 
avoided  planting  these  flowers  anywhere  about  the 
garden,  because  they  seed  so  freely  that  they  soon 
become  an  annoyance,  strangling  more  important 
plants,  and  even  tangling  up  the  vegetables  mis- 
chievously. Instead,  I  have  given  them  a  screen 
that  breaks  the  bareness  of  the  tool  house,  and 
let  them  run  riot.  The  leaves  are  not  especially 
notable,  being  rather  coarse ;  but  the  flowers  are 
as  exquisite  in  their  richly  coloured  fragility  as  if 
Aurora,  in  the  bath,  had  amused  herself  by  blowing 
bubbles.  These,  catching  the  sunrise  glow,  floated 
away  upon  the  breeze,  and  falling  on  a  wayside 
vine,  opened  into  flowers  that  from  their  origin 
vanish  again  under  the  sun's  caress. 

Among  all  their  colours  none  is  more  beautiful  or 
usual  than  the  rich  purple  with  the  ruddy  throat 
merging  to  white  —  night  shadows  melting  into  the 
clear  of  dawn. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  299 

August  is  one  of  the  few  growing  months  when 
the  female  gardener  may,  without  neglecting  her 
posies,  if  she  chooses,  attire  herself  becomingly,  sit 
on  the  porch  in  idleness,  and  read  a  novel. 

To  be  sure,  work  is  still  to  be  done,  but  the 
weeding  and  tying  to  stakes  is  not  so  violently 
necessary  as  heretofore.  The  building  of  the  cold 
pit,  a  sort  of  small,  sunken  greenhouse,  in  the  bank 
south  of  the  barn,  is  being  conducted  by  Bertie 
with  a  carpenter  to  help  him,  though  of  course  the 
cuttings  that  are  to  be  kept  in  it  must  soon  be  set 
in  sand  to  root. 

I  was  thus  lounging  and  reading  a  novel,  —  not 
a  new  one,  for,  thank  Heaven,  my  hardy  perennials 
in  this  line  have  not  given  out,  but  "  Christian's 
Mistake,"  one  from  my  Tauchnitz  family  that  live 
together  in  one  bookcase,  wearing  a  cheerful  uni- 
form of  half  red  morocco,  —  when  father  drove  up, 
and,  without  first  going  to  consult  his  office  pad, 
seated  himself  opposite  me  with  a  perturbed  look 
upon  his  face. 

I  smiled  encouragingly,  and  was  instantly  pre- 
pared to  supply  any  need,  from  flowers  through 
fruit  and  soup  to  baby  linen,  the  last  "loan  bas- 
ket" of  which,  after  having  been  nicely  laundered, 
was  enjoying  an  unusual  rest. 


300  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

"  I  have  a  very  special  favour  to  ask  of  you, 
daughter,"  father  began,  his  solemnity  striking  me 
with  dismay. 

"With  pleasure,"  I  answered;  "that  is,"  as  an 
idea  struck  me,  "  unless  it  is  to  go  somewhere  away 
from  home  and  stay  all  night." 

"  No,  it  is  to  invite  a  guest  here  for  a  whole 
week." 

"  Not  Aunt  Lot  and  the  Reverend  Jabez ! "  I 
cried,  jumping  up  so  that  "  Christian "  fell  sprawl- 
ing on  the  floor  to  the  bending  of  a  morocco  corner. 

"  Dora  Penfield,"  he  said,  much  to  my  relief,  then 
paused  to  give  me  time  to  recollect  when  I  had  last 
heard  of  her. 

Dora  —  Penfield !  Ah,  yes,  I  recollect.  She  was 
the  orphan  daughter  of  an  old  school  friend  of 
mother's,  who  used  to  live  with  a  distant  relative, 
in  a  stately  colonial  house  on  the  farther  edge  of 
town.  One  of  those  fine  old  places,  with  good  china 
and  mahogany  within  doors,  and  box-edged  walks 
and  a  well-preserved  garden  without,  that  had  much 
impressed  my  girlish  fancy.  In  those  days,  though 
several  years  under  thirty,  she  had  been  quite  a 
personage,  a  lady  bountiful,  and  every  one  had 
been  surprised  when,  without  apparent  reason,  she 
had  suddenly  closed  the  house,  all  but  a  few  rooms 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  301 

for  a  caretaker,  and  had  gone  abroad  to  "study 
art." 

The  community  was  amazed,  for  to  it  "  art "  was 
an  extremely  indefinite  term  (which,  by  the  way,  it 
really  is  in  such  cases),  variously  meaning  china 
painting,  embroidering  fat  strawberries  or  flowers 
on  tea  cloths  in  such  high  relief  that  the  cups  and 
saucers  go  rocking  about  among  them  as  if  at  sea. 
Or,  more  novel  yet  and  quite  the  latest  thing, 
copying  chromos  of  gamebirds  in  oils  on  well-var- 
nished bread  boards,  the  same  to  be  hung  by  an 
elaborately  careless  knot  of  hemp  rope  over  the 
dining-room  mantle,  surmounted  by  either  the  family 
gun,  a  tennis  racket,  boxing  gloves,  or  a  fishing 
basket,  according  to  material  available. 

The  Emporium  was  sure  that  Dora  Penfield  (she 
was  never  called  "Miss"  —  that  was  common)  must 
have  lost  her  money,  and  hoped  if  there  ever  was 
an  auction  up  at  the  mansion,  she  might  be  alive  to 
go  to  it. 

The  Village  Liar  took  an  entirely  different  point 
of  view,  affirming  that  a  certain  young  doctor  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  change.  He,  after  serving  two 
years  at  the  hospital  for  a  special  course  of  study, 
had  gone  to  a  distant  city  as  junior  assistant  to  a 
well-known  physician.  The  why  and  wherefore  of 


302  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

the  matter,  however,  she  did  not  attempt  to  un- 
ravel. 

As  this  flitted  through  my  brain,  I  said,  seeing 
light :  — 

"  I  suppose  she  is  returning  from  abroad,  and 
you  think  it  would  be  more  cheerful  for  her  to  come 
here  while  her  home  is  made  ready  than  to  go  to 
a  hotel.  Of  course  I  will  make  her  welcome, 
though,  if  I  remember  rightly,  I  was  always  a  bit 
afraid  of  her,  she  sat  up  so  straight,  and  had  a  long 
slim  waist,  fine  clothes,  and  such  white,  pointed 
fingers." 

"Her  fingers  will  no  longer  be  either  white  or 
pointed  soon,"  said  father,  with  a  sigh.  "  She  has 
come  home  not  to  open  her  house,  but  to  take  up 
the  vocation  of  a  trained  nurse.  Why  she  does  it, 
I  do  not  know.  It  is  not  from  lack  of  money,  and 
as  she  is  mentally  and  physically  sound,  I  have  no 
choice  but  to  take  her;  and  I  am  glad  to  have  our 
new  venture  of  a  training  school  start  with  such 
good  material.  When  I  saw  her  last  week  at  the 
hospital,  she  was  quiet  and  serious,  and  her  choice 
is  evidently  not  a  mere  whim. 

"  You  know  that  we  were  to  have  opened  the 
school  the  middle  of  this  month,  but  circumstances 
have  delayed  the  date  a  week.  As  she  has  made 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  303 

all  her  arrangements  through  my  mistake,  I  wish 
to  ask  her  here,  where  she  will  be  as  free  as  possible 
from  the  village  questioning  that  her  resolve  is  sure 
to  call  forth." 

I  am  much  relieved  that  there  is  nothing  com- 
plicated about  the  visit.  I  see  nothing  strange  in 
her  choice.  Nursing  always  attracted  me,  and  she 
probably  wants  to  understand  how  to  care  for  sick 
people  properly,  and  perhaps  have  convalescents 
sometimes  share  in  her  big  house. 

Father  had  but  gone  indoors  when  the  Lady  of 
the  Bluffs  drove  up,  seemingly  quite  surprised  to  see 
me  clothed  and  in  what  she  considers  my  right  mind, 
lying  back  in  a  piazza  chair. 

"Well,  this  is  most  unusual!"  she  gasped  after 
taking  the  stiffest  seat.  She  always  was  breathless 
on  moving ;  for  her  dress  waist,  which  looked  fluffy 
and  easy  enough,  was,  I  am  sure,  extremely  tight 
underneath,  where  some  sort  of  rigid  bar  gave  the 
straight  downward  slope  affected  by  Queen  Bess,  to 
a  form  that  naturally  would  express  itself  in  the 
one  or  more  hillocks  common  to  well-fed  middle 
age. 

"To  find  you  at  5  P.M.  actually  sitting  still  and 
playing  the  lady !  Is  your  garden  dead  or  are  you 
tired  of  it  ?  Mine  is,  or  rather  my  fernery.  Would 


304  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

you  believe  it,  my  dear,  there  were  green  bugs  on 
some  of  the  ferns,  and  I  told  our  new  gardener  (he  is 
a  German,  but  only  understands  some  outlandish 
dialect,  and  does  not  take  in  a  word  of  the  easy  con- 
versational German  I  speak)  that  I  knew  they  ought 
to  be  fumigated  with  something,  and  he'd  better  ask 
for  it  at  the  store.  I  spoke  slowly  in  English ;  he 
knows  that  better  than  his  own  tongue  evidently, 
though  he  won't  try  to  speak  it;  and  I'm  sure  he 
understood,  for  he  wrote  down  what  I  said. 

"What  does  he  do  but  go  to  the  store  and  buy 
sulphur  candles,  dozens  of  them,  and  not  only  kill  all 
the  plants  in  the  fern  house,  but  my  two  darling 
macaws  as  well,  that  I  always  have  perched  among 
the  plants  in  the  conservatory  when  I  give  a  blow- 
out. So  decorative,  you  know !  Though  I  couldn't 
keep  them  there  all  the  time,  for  they  screech  so  that 
Jenks-Smith  says  they  curdle  his  blood,  which  is 
dangerous  for  a  short-necked  man  who  won't  give 
up  port  though  it's  horribly  out  of  fashion.  Well, 
they  are  dead,  the  poor  dears.  Now,  what  would 
you  do  ? " 

"You  might  have  them  stuffed,"  I  suggested. 

"  Oh,  bother  the  birds  !  About  such  incompetent 
help,  I  mean." 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  hire  a  trained  English  or 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  305 

Scotch  gardener  of  experience,  and  then  let  him 
engage  his  own  assistants  and  give  him  full  control," 
I  said,  feeling  sure  that  this  was  one  of  the  many 
cases  where  the  master  and  mistress  must  learn  of 
the  man. 

"  What  ?  and  have  no  say-so  about  my  own 
things  ?  I  guess  not.  We  began  that  way  with  a 
'  trained  English  gardener,'  and  if  you  please,  when 
I  ordered  him  to  trim  the  rooms  with  cherry  blossoms 
from  the  young  trees  for  my  Japanese  tea  (I  sat 
under  an  umbrella  and  wore  a  ravishing  costume 
imported  especially),  he  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me 
that  if  he  picked  the  flowers,  we  must  do  without 
cherries  later.  And  when  I  told  him  that  it  was  the 
business  of  a  trained  man  to  see  that  we  had  cherries 
anyhow,  he  left!  When-  I  asked  why,  the  coach- 
man, who  is  Irish  and  sociable,  told  me  that  the 
'  blamed  thing '  said  he  '  had  no  use  for  such  as  us.' 
Just  fancy ! " 

I  suppressed  a  fit  of  giggles  with  great  difficulty, 
but  Effie  helped  me  out  by  arranging  the  tea  table. 
Ice  and  lemon  this  time,  as  befitted  a  very  muggy, 
hot  afternoon. 

As  my  lady  sat  and  sipped,  —  she  has  recently 
lost  a  molar  and  so  used  her  lips  like  a  beak,  —  she 
forgot  her  woes,  and  suddenly  reverted  to  me,  saying, 


306  THE  GARDEN   OF   A 

"Now  you  must  really  tell  me  what  you  are 
thinking  about.  What  are  you  planning  ?  You  are 
staring  downhill  there  as  if  you  had  not  heard  a 
word  that  I  said.  Ah,  I  know,  you  are  thinking  to 
make  that  slope  into  a  lawn,  and  a  nice  one  it  will 
be  if  you  can  get  the  grass  to  take.  We've  had 
horrid  luck  and  are  all  ploughed  up  on  three  sides 
again  for  the  fourth  time." 

"  A  lawn  ?  Why,  it  is  a  lawn  now ! "  I  exclaimed 
indignantly, —  "  a  lovely,  wild  lawn." 

"  A  wild  lawn  ?  How  odd !  just  fancy  !  Why,  it 
is  full  of  everything  but  grass.  Somehow,  I  thought 
a  lawn  was  all  grass,  you  know."  This  with  a  criti- 
cal squint  that  she  always  gives  when  she  thinks  she 
has  made  a  point. 

"  I  believe,  now  you  mention  it,  that  lawns  are 
usually  made  of  plain  ordinary  grass  all  one  even 
colour,  shaven,  shorn,  and  oh,  so  monotonously 
green  ;  an  unnatural  sort  of  thing,  in  short,  just  like 
the  foliage  beds  people  freckle  these  lawns  with. 

"  Now  our  lawn  that  you  see  down  there  is  decid- 
edly unusual,  I  will  grant,  but  it's  perfectly  natural  and 
not  at  all  monotonous,  for  it's  never  the  same  colour 
for  two  successive  months.  Nature,  when  undis- 
turbed, is  never  monotonous,  you  know.  Even  when 
using  green,  the  most  frequent  colour  on  her  palette, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  307 

she  throws  in  contrasting  tints  by  way  of  expression, 
and  you  will  seldom  see  two  sides  of  a  leaf  of  the 
same  hue,  and  the  leaf  stem  frequently  gives  a  bold 
dash  of  bronze  or  purple.  Look  at  the  wild  grasses 
of  meadows  and  marsh  lands.  Do  not  all  the  flower 
colours  wash  over  them  in  the  course  of  the  year, 
and  our  bare  hillsides  wear  nearly  the  heathery  hues 
of  the  old  world  ? 

"  In  our  climate  the  usual  lawn  implies  a  pro- 
cession of  men  picking  9ut  weeds,  followed  by  an- 
other lot  sprinkling  a  mixture  of  grass  seed  and 
earth ;  then  comes  a  din  of  mowing  machines,  and 
in  the  fall  an  avalanche  of  top  dressing,  making  one 
think  of  modernizing  the  old  proverb,  '  A  grain  of 
wheat  is  worth  a  grain  of  gold  '  to  read  '  A  blade  of 
grass  costs  a  grain  of  gold..' 

"  My  lawn  is  full  of  resources,  and  therefore 
makes  few  demands.  An  occasional  sprinkling  of 
fertilizer  is  gratefully  received  and  calls  forth  a 
rich  green  blush  of  pleasure,  but  is  not  exacted ;  a 
very  moderate  trimming  by  a  single  mower  keeps 
its  tresses  in  decent  array.  Then,  too,  it  has  its 
seasons  like  the  garden  and  many  surprises  to  boot, 
for  in  parts  it  has  both  moist  and  dry  soil. 

"  In  April,  pussy-toes,  the  little  white  vernal  ever- 
lasting, patter  across  it,  and  early  blue  violets  hide 


308  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

between  the  tufty  grass  at  the  bottom  toward  the 
stone  fence.  Saxafrage  flowers  spring  from  the 
leafy  rosettes  in  dry  spots  where  the  rock  comes 
nearly  to  the  surface,  and  in  late  May  moss  pink 
shows  its  rosy  glow  here  and  there. 

"Then  there  are  always  guinea  gold  dandelions, 
strewn  at  random,  that  later  turn  to  down  and  fly 
away  like  veritable  flowers  of  magic.  Next,  following 
the  white  violets,  come  blue  speedwell,  bluets  and 
coy  windflowers  in  the  moist  hollow.  A  few  vagrant 
ox-eye  daisies  will  hang  about  the  fence  edge  and 
nestle  in  among  the  shrubs,  and  Jack-over-the-ground 
creeps  hither  and  thither  with  golden  cups  and  shin- 
ing leaves. 

"  In  July  yarrow  spreads  its  fragrant  fern-cut 
leaves,  and  covers  places  where  the  grass  is  thin, 
and  bedstraw  with  its  queer,  rough  stems  and  white 
cross  flowers,  while  up  under  the  hemlock  trees  on 
the  right,  Indian  pipe  raises  its  ghostly  stems,  and 
pyrola  flourishes  under  the  beech  tree  by  the  bank 
wall 

"  Look  across  the  green  now,  for  the  lawn  is 
delicately  green,  even  if  not  wholly  grass.  Do  you 
see  that  purple  tint  where  the  slope  begins  ?  It  is 
wild  thyme,  and  next  month  these  purple  flowers  will 
be  replaced  by  purple-bronze  leaves,  and  yonder, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  309 

climbing  around  the  hill,  is  a  trail  of  wild  marjo- 
ram. Do  you  not  smell  the  clean  fragrance  that 
the  afternoon  dampness  holds  close  ?  My  lawn  is 
a  bouquet  an  acre  wide !  " 

"  I  smell  turkey  dressing,"  said  my  lady,  suddenly. 

I  had  quite  forgotten  to  whom  I  was  speaking, 
but  the  shock  sobered  me  at  once. 

"  That  is,  soup  flavouring,  I  mean ;  but  it's  a  right 
stiff  guess  enough,  I  reckon,  for  they  do  use  thyme 
and  such  things  in  cooking.  I  remember  ordering 
some  once  when  I  used  to  go  to  market. 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  always  were  odd,  and  you 
can  have  your  lawn  a  '  kitchen  bouquet '  if  you 
choose,  but  I'm  sure  our  landscapist  would  say  it 
isn't  at  all  the  thing  for  us. 

"  By  the  way,  where  do  you  buy  your  tea  ?  It  is 
delicious  !  Our  butler  never  gets  mine  twice  alike, 
and  he  blames  it  on  the  second  man  whose  duty 
it  is  to  see  that  the  water  boils.  He  only  pours  it 
on,  of  course,  and  serves  it. 

"  Make  it  myself,  as  you  always  do  in  the  indoor 
season  ?  I  tried  it  once  and  burned  a  hundred- 
dollar  mechlin  sleeve  drapery  in  the  horrid  urn  lamp. 

"Would  you  just  give  me  a  bunch  of  your  delicious 
lemon  verbena  ?  It  will  be  such  a  relief  to  have  a 
change  in  the  flavouring  in  the  finger  glasses.  The 


310  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

only  good-smelling  thing  we  have  this  year  is  rose 
geranium,  and  we're  done  to  death  with  it.  Last 
night  I  really  believe  the  chef  flavoured  the  ices 
with  it,  and  last  week  he  candied  some  with  rose 
leaves,  and  they  looked  real  well  in  my  new  pierced 
silver  basket." 


I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  sit  upon  the  piazza. 
in  the  afternoon  again  for  some  time.  I  shall  have 
the  seat  mended  up  in  the  old  cherry  tree  where  I 
used  to  perch  and  play  princess  in  a  tower  and  feel 
romantic  ten  years  ago,  and  then  I  can  vanish  among 
the  branches  where  nothing  worse  than  tree-toads 
and  blue-jays  can  see  me. 

I  find  myself  wondering  about  Dora  Penfield. 
Is  it  a  case  of  vocation,  or  is  there  a  romance  in 
hiding  ?  I  wonder  how  Evan  will  bear  up  under 
a  whole  week's  visitation.  If  she  comes  Saturday, 
I  shall  know  all  about  it ;  and  if  she  doesn't,  I  shall 
forget  that  I  wanted  to  know,  which  will  do  quite 
as  well.  I  wonder  if  she  will  be  interested  in  the 
garden.  I  hope  so,  for  I  must  do  some  hard  work 
again  next  week. 

That  reminds  me  that  I  have  promised  father 
that  I  will  speak  to  Martha  about  learning  to  make 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  sii 

Franco- American  bread.  Poor  lamb,  he  is  really 
pathetic.  He  says  he  has  eaten  toast  until  he  ex- 
pects to  turn  to  crumbs,  and  that  pikelets,  muffins, 
and  Sally  Lunn  cakes  are  no  longer  a  consolation 
or  substitutes.  Heigh-ho!  it  is  too  late  to-night. 

Ah,  how  the  fragrance  floats  up  through  the 
window  from  my  "  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme 
grows."  I  wonder  what  Shakespeare  would  have 
thought  of  Mrs.  Jenks-Smith !  She  would  hardly 
have  considered  him  "the  thing",  but  possibly 
might  have  suggested  that  he  give  a  reading  in  her 
garden  at  half  rates  to  introduce  himself. 


XVI 

SEPTEMBER 

THE   COLOURS    OF    FLOWERS 

September  5.  The  garden  change  between  late 
August  and  early  September  is  in  degree  of  ripe- 
ness only.  Two  weeks  ago  the  annuals  pleaded 
their  cause  most  eloquently  by  their  cheerful  profu- 
sion. Now  a  storm  of  a  night  and  day  that  threat- 
ened to  bring  cool  weather,  but  merely  passed 
over  leaving  a  wake  of  yellow  haze,  has  well-nigh 
stripped  these  summer  flowers  of  their  fleeting 
finery.  Everywhere  the  seed  pods  raised  above 
the  fallen  petals  make  their  bids  for  perpetuity, 
while  the  early-blooming,  hardy  plants  that  escaped 
trimming,  like  foxgloves  and  sweet  William,  are 
already  surrounded  by  a  colony  of  downy,  tender 
green  seedlings. 

"  Pods  are  the  poppies,  and  slender  spires  of  pods 
The  hollyhocks." 

The  alcove  of  camelia  balsams  is  quite  dishev- 
elled, and  the  pointed,  cocoon-like  pods,  from  which 


GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S  WIFE     313 

one  always  expects  to  see  a  moth  or  butterfly  emerge, 
are  ripening  at  the  bottom  of  the  stalk,  and  sending 
forth  a  fusilade  of  brown  shot.  These  balsams, 
though  rather  unpickable  flowers,  have  been  a  two 
months'  glory,  from  their  solid  quality  and  the  beau- 
tiful colours  of  the  spurred  blossoms.  No  annual 
more  perfectly  displays  the  so-called  pastel  tints,  — 
peachblow,  lilac,  mauve,  ivory  white,  pale  salmon, 
in  addition  to  vivid  crimsons,  scarlet,  and  many 
vivid  and  spotted  hybrids. 

Alas  for  my  bed  of  novelties  from  the  "Yellow 
Journal "  catalogue !  Not  only  did  it  become  merely 
a  mass  of  miscellaneous  wreckage  even  before  Au- 
gust ended,  but  so  sodden  and  water-soaked  that  I 
had  to  have  the  debris  removed  with  a  garden  fork, 
and  Bertie  has  now  thoroughly  worked  over  the 
ground  for  the  first  planting  of  Shirley  poppies. 
Those  sown  in  early  September  make  sturdy  tufts 
before  frost,  and  in  spring,  bloom  three  weeks  ear- 
lier than  those  from  the  October-sown  seed  that 
does  not  germinate  until  April. 

Father  and  Evan  have  taken  their  vacations 
during  the  past  three  months  by  daily  install- 
ments, thus  making  the  most  of  opportunity  and 
fine  weather.  Evan  has  made  many  little  garden 
improvements ;  for  to  him  as  well  as  father,  vacation 


314  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

idleness  is  merely  a  change  from  mental  to  physical 
employment. 

The  wild  walk  beyond  the  sun  garden  offered  the 
greatest  possibilities,  and  it  is  chiefly  there  that  he 
has  spent  his  strength,  sometimes  varying  this  work 
by  training  our  new  horse  in  side-saddle  docility. 
This  penchant  of  Evan  for  horse  training  was  the 
primary  cause  of  depriving  the  Church  of  his  ser- 
vices. In  his  youth,  when  on  a  probationary  visit 
to  his  uncle,  the  Dean,  he  had  escaped  daily  to  a 
nearby  race  course,  and  there  ingratiated  himself  so 
thoroughly  with  the  stable  men  that  he  was  allowed 
to  exercise  an  especially  cantankerous  mare.  He  was 
thus  surprised  by  His  Reverence  when  handling  a 
mount  in  an  exceedingly  scientific  and  jockey fied 
manner,  and  sent  home  in  disgrace. 

The  wild  walk  born  of  the  cowpath  is  either 
arched  by  trees  or  screened  by  bushes  for  the  greater 
part  of  its  length.  In  one  place,  however,  for  a  space 
of  some  twenty  yards  it  crosses  the  open  field,  giving 
a  view  of  cultivated  farmland  below  that  mars  the 
effect  of  wildness  and  seclusion. 

To  overcome  this  defect,  Evan,  with  Bertie's  aid  in 
post  setting,  has  made  the  framework  of  a  sort  of 
arbour  that  screens  the  walk  completely.  It  is  not 
of  set  and  formal  lattice  work  like  the  old  rose 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  315 

arbour,  for  its  posts,  though  nearly  of  the  same 
height,  are  no  two  of  the  same  size  or  distance  apart, 
being  slim  trees  —  birch,  cedar,  maple,  tulip,  pine, 
and  chestnut,  with  the  bark  left  on.  These  he  has 
bound  together  with  the  woody  vines  of  wild  grapes 
from  the  grove  above  the  house,  where  they  reach 
up  sometimes  thirty  or  forty  feet  into  the  trees,  with- 
out branching,  and  then  loop  and  twist  themselves 
into  huge  grotesque  knots.  An  ox  yoke,  found  in 
an  old  barn,  and  venerable  with  lichens,  makes  the 
entering  lintel  of  the  roof,  also  woven  of  grape  vine 
and  curved  branches. 

Already  the  effect  is  of  a  path  cut  trail-fashion 
through  thickset  trees,  and  when  to  complete  the 
plan  it  shall  be  covered  with  native  vines  meshed 
carefully  in  and  out,  —  bittersweet,  clematis,  coral 
honeysuckle,  Virginia  creeper,  frost  grapes,  bind- 
weed, climbing  hemp,  wild  yam,  and  even  catbriar, 
—  it  will  be  quite  unique,  a  bit  of  wild  "pleached 
alley "  conceived  and  born  in  the  garden  of  a 
commuter's  wife. 


The  September  garden  has  flowers  all  its  own  that 
have  more  of  the  personality  that  mark  those  of  May 
and  early  June. 


316  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

The  sweet  peas  have  done  their  work ;  that  is, 
those  of  the  trellised  vines  of  the  long  walk.  In  July, 
after  a  heavy  rain,  I  planted  a  row  of  the  dwarf  pink 
and  white  Blanche  Ferry  as  an  experiment,  just  as 
we  use  dwarf  peas  in  the  vegetable  garden  for 
autumn  bearing,  and  they  are  now  full  of  buds  break- 
ing into  bloom,  though  the  flowers  are  not  so  large  as 
those  of  the  earlier  season. 

I  have  never  been  successful  in  sowing  the  tall 
sweet  peas  in  succession  for  autumn  blooming,  for 
they  are  of  deliberate  growth,  and  hot  weather  wastes 
their  vitality  in  feverish  effort.  This,  to  be  sure,  has 
been  an  exceptionally  equable  season,  and  rather  the 
exception  than  the  rule.  I  like  to  think  it  is  a  sort 
of  golden  jubilee  to  welcome  me  home  to  my  own 
again.  Even  Blanche  Ferry  might  have  dried  up  or 
died  from  mildew  if  August  had  been  either  wholly 
dry  or  rent  with  battering  thunder  storms,  as  I  have 
known  to  be  the  case.  Let  every  one  who  makes 
garden  plans  frequently  insert  the  letters  C.  P.  in 
them  as  a  reminder,  the  same  standing  for  climate 
permitting. 

The  Margaret  carnations  are  now  blooming  as 
freely  as  border  pinks,  and  with  the  summer  roses 
give  the  table  a  fragrant  bouquet  once  more.  Helio- 
trope is  still  in  profusion,  also  the  mignonette  that 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  317 

had  a  half-shady  exposure.  The  wall  flowers  are 
growing  more  bushy  and  profuse,  while  the  last  plant- 
ing of  gladioli,  by  chance  wholly  lacking  in  pink  tints, 
is  striving  to  rival  nasturtiums  and  salvia  in  colour. 

The  white  panicled-flowered  clematis,  though  in  its 
first  year,  is  covering  the  end  of  the  honeysuckle 
wall,  where  it  is  entrenched,  with  snow.  Yet  the 
distinctive  character  of  the  September  garden  is  to 
be  found  in  two  species  that  divide  the  honours  of 
the  month  equally  between  them,  —  the  asters  and 
the  Dahlias,  once  represented  only  by  the  neat  but 
rigid  quilled  species  that  have  now  been  hybridized 
into  a  dozen  graceful  forms  and  exquisite  tints. 
Though  the  cactus  type  of  Dahlia  is  the  most  interest- 
ing and  individual,  the  long-stemmed  single  varieties 
are  very  graceful,  and  when  gathered  are  more  amena- 
ble to  arrangement,  while  the  large  quilled  rosettes 
of  splendid  winey  crimson  and  purple  colours  seem 
in  their  turn  unmatchable ;  their  velvet  texture  is  the 
garden's  autumn  robe  donned  at  the  first  thought  of 
colder  weather. 

I  have  tried  the  experiment  of  fastening  my  Dahlias 
against  a  low  trellis  such  as  supports  the  nasturtiums 
and  sweet  peas,  and  it  is  very  satisfactory.  Such 
succulent  plants  are  likely  to  be  broken  down  and 
bereft  of  many  branches  if  merely  secured  to  a  stake. 


3i8  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

But  in  this  way  the  shoots  may  be  pulled  through 
the  wires,  and  a  sightly  hedge  is  the  result,  while 
the  support  is  high  and  strong  enough  to  let  me 
cover  the  plants  nightly  with  light-weight  unbleached 
cotton,  if  frost  threatens  too  early. 

If  asters  like  a  garden,  they  thrive  mightily ;  if  not, 
they  are  the  most  ungrateful  of  annuals.  They  must 
have  deep,  cool  soil  which  ants  have  never  inhabited 
or  from  which  they  have  been  banished,  else  at  the 
very  moment  when  they  should  bloom,  they  wither 
away  almost  in  a  single  night.  When  the  plant  is 
pulled  up  to  find  the  cause,  a  swarm  of  white  lice 
will  be  found  feeding  upon  the  root,  these  being  the 
cows  that  supply  milk  to  the  ant  nursery,  and  always 
plentiful  in  ant  colonies. 

Asters  may  be  had  in  all  shades  of  colour  except,  I 
think,  the  three  distinct  primaries,  —  true  vermilion, 
blue,  and  yellow,  in  this  following  the  balsams,  save 
that  these  last  possess  a  real  scarlet. 


To  these  September  flowers  must  be  added  the 
waxy  white  day  lily  (funkia  subcordata),  a  light, 
scattering,  second  blooming  of  many,  hardy  June 
plants  such  as  larkspurs ;  the  late  phloxes  and  a 
slender  sheaf  of  hybrid  perpetual  roses,  though  in 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  319 

our  soil  at  this  time  they  yield  only  flat,  semi- 
double  flowers  of  poor  quality.  The  hybrid  teas  are 
our  only  satisfactory  hardy  autumn-blooming  roses. 


Dora  Penfield  has  come  and  gone,  staying  not  one 
week,  but  two.  In  fact,  her  visit  was  the  cause  of 
my  neglect  of  you,  my  Garden  Boke,  during  the  last 
half  of  August.  Now  I  will  make  up  for  it  by  telling 
you  about  her,  for  you  are  discreet,  having  ears  and 
no  lips.  I've  felt  so  pent  up  and  conscious  ever  since 
she  made  me  her  unwilling  confidante ;  for  though  I 
gave  and  was  asked  for  no  promises  of  secrecy,  I  feel 
a  reserve  altogether  new  to  me,  and  that  I  ought 
not  to  tell  Evan  even,  which  is  very  uncomfortable, 
for  he  is  too  wholesomely  direct  to  sympathize. 
Later  I  may  hint  of  it  to'  father,  however ;  for  he 
must  often  come  in  contact  with  her  at  the  hospital, 
and  may  need  to  understand  her  peculiar  attitude 
and  moods.  Why  she  told  me  so  much  about  her 
life  I  cannot  imagine,  unless  she  felt  that  she  must 
have  the  relief  of  speech,  and  seeing  the  perfect 
understanding  between  Evan  and  me,  thought  that 
I  of  necessity  must  sympathize  with  her.  So  I  do. 
But  no,  pity  is  the  word ;  for  the  darkness  of  her 
life,  father  says,  as  in  the  case  of  so  many  he  meets. 


320  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

comes  from  the  fact  that  she  has  stood,  as  it  were, 
in  her  own  shadow,  and  tried  to  manage  nature. 

I  think  that  poor  Dora  must  have  been  born  to 
or  inherited  a  certain  vein  of  ill  luck  that  she  has 
either  had  too  much  self-complacency  to  recognize 
or  else  lacked  the  force  to  forestall.  According  to 
her  own  fragmentary  account,  which  I  have  pieced 
together  by  intuition,  from  her  girlhood,  when  her 
parents  died  leaving  her  rich  as  money  is  reckoned 
in  the  country,  mischance  continually  fell  upon  her  in 
ways  for  which  she  denied  all  responsibility.  She  is, 
in  fact,  the  sort  of  woman  who  is  always  overtaken 
by  a  shower  when  she  goes  out  in  her  best  clothes. 

She  went  to  college,  and  seems  to  have  obtained 
a  feeling  of  superiority  over  her  less  ambitious  sis- 
ters, instead  of  breadth  of  vision  and  culture.  Next, 
she  travelled  abroad  awhile  with  some  college 
friends,  and,  on  her  return,  opened  her  old  home, 
which  she  improved,  having  one  gift,  the  rare  skill 
that  knows  how  to  renew  without  making  the  new- 
ness apparent. 

For  several  years  she  led  a  self-satisfactory  life, 
being  a  leader  of  a  small  social  procession,  ready 
in  charity  and  much  flattered  and  consulted.  Then 
fate  stepped  in  and  began  to  meddle  with  the  even 
fabric  of  her  life,  and  as  she  thinks,  tangle  the  skein 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  321 

and  mismatch  its  colour.  For  to  a  vague  thing  to 
which,  when  kind,  she  referred  as  Providence,  and 
when  harsh,  Fate,  she  attributes  all  events,  with  the 
superstition  of  Delia  or  Mrs.  Mullins,  and  never 
arraigns  herself  for  errors  or  deems  her  judgments 
impeachable. 

Fate  came  a-wooing  in  the  form  of  the  serious 
and  really  fine-looking  young  doctor  of  the  hospi- 
tal, upon  whom  at  the  time  the  Village  Liar  fixed 
her  suspicions.  For  a  year  Dora  and  he  were 
much  together.  It  was  really  the  first  time  that 
she,  in  her  narrow,  suburban  life,  had  come  under 
the  influence  of  a  man  evidently  much  more  than 
her  equal,  and  near  her  own  age,  she  being,  perhaps, 
two  years  his  senior. 

She  justified  the  acquaintance  to  herself  and  jug- 
gled with  its  reality  by  calling  it  friendship.  He 
did  not,  and  the  moment  that  he  had  secured  a 
footing  on  the  professional  ladder,  a  good  opening 
in  a  distant  city,  he  told  her  in  all  sincerity  that 
he  now  might  ask  her  for  the  promise  that  it  would 
have  been  selfish  and  one-sided  to  have  expected 
before;  he  being  frank  and  simple-minded,  never 
for  a  moment  doubted  that  she  was  as  single- 
hearted  as  he  himself. 

She   really   did   love   him,  that   is,  as  far  as  she 


322  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

knew  how,  the  shadow  of  self  always  keeping  well 
between ;  but  she  resented  his  taking  her  love  for 
granted,  though  she  had  been  telling  it  by  eye  and 
accent  for  many  months.  She  was  not  yet  proud 
of  him,  though  she  meant  to  marry  him,  but  the 
shadow  lay  heavily;  for  whether  she  realized  it  or 
not,  she  did  not  care  to  leave  her  pedestal  to  be- 
come either  the  betrothed  or  the  wife  of  a  man  as 
yet  unknown.  She  fenced  to  gain  time,  using  the 
well-worn  subterfuge,  half  argument,  half  coquetry, 
saying  "  to  bind  him  before  his  way  was  made 
might  retard  his  progress  —  she  was  too  old  for 
him,  he  would  meet  younger,  prettier  faces,  and  out- 
grow her  —  their  friendship  was  intellectual,  while  a 
doctor  needed  heart  more  than  head  in  a  wife." 

Then  seeing  that  he  stood  white  and  aghast,  suf- 
fering but  making  no  protest,  she  grew  angry,  and 
told  him  hotly  that  in  two  years'  time  —  the  space 
that  he  asked  her  to  wait  for  him  —  he  would  prob- 
ably thank  her  for  the  advice,  never  dreaming  that 
he  would  take  her  seriously.  He  assented  humbly, 
only  asking  if  he  might  write  to  her  in  the  interval. 
She  said,  "  Yes,  if  you  will  never  mention  love  or 
marriage  until  two  years  are  over,"  not  even  then 
expecting  that  she  would  be  taken  at  her  word. 

He  went  to  his  new  post ;  a  letter  or  two  came, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  323 

detailed  and  full  of  his  professional  work.  Restless 
and  miserable,  but  still  keeping  rigidly  to  her  ped- 
estal, she  went  abroad,  ostensibly  to  study  art, 
but  really  to  follow  the  great  procession  who  wander 
aimlessly  about,  guide-book  in  hand,  for  various 
reasons  trying  to  kill  time  out  of  eye-shot  of  the 
critical. 

Every  other  week  letters  were  exchanged,  and 
in  order  to  match  his  professional  enthusiasm  in 
kind,  Dora  dropped  the  easy  gossip  of  travel,  visited 
the  hospitals  wherever  she  went,  grew  technical, 
and  dilated  upon  the  splendid  career  offered  women 
through  trained  nursing,  hinting  idly  that  she  felt 
strongly  drawn  to  make  the  vocation  her  own. 

When  two  years  had  nearly  passed,  she  turned 
homeward  in  an  apparently  leisurely  sort  of  way 
without  special  significance.  But  in  reality  she  was 
feverishly  impatient,  and  her  trunk  contained  many 
of  the  pretty  things  that  make  up  bridal  finery. 
When  she  arrived  and  was  well  rested,  she  sent  Him 
(for  she  thought  the  word  in  capitals  now)  a  note  to 
say  at  what  hotel  she  was  stopping,  and  that  she 
was  "only  passing  through  the  city  on  her  way 
home"  —  nothing  more. 

He  came  at  once  with  honest  eagerness.  A 
lover  would  have  noticed  that  it  was  two  years 


324  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

to  a  day  since  they  had  parted,  but  he  only  re- 
garded the  time  approximately,  took  both  her 
hands,  and  looked  her  squarely  in  the  face  as  he 
told  her  how  well  she  looked,  and  that  as  the  for- 
bidden time  for  speaking  of  himself  was  over,  he 
must  be  selfish. 

He  thanked  her  for  her  patient  friendship,  and 
for  her  wise  advice,  saying  that  even  two 
years  before  she  had  known  him  better  than  he 
himself  had  done.  He  told  of  his  success  and 
that  what  she  had  said  had  all  proved  true.  He 
now  realized  that  a  physician  from  his  anxious 
life  did  not  need  a  helpmeet  of  the  head  as  much 
as  of  the  heart,  and  that  he  was  just  betrothed  to 
the  daughter  of  his  senior,  a  wholesome,  fresh 
young  girl,  whom  she  would  love  and  who  carried 
restfulness  in  her  very  laugh.  No  one  knew  it  yet, 
as  he  wished  Dora  to  be  the  first  to  hear  the  news, 
and  give  her  good  wishes  to  them  both. 

He  said  that  in  another  year  or  two  he  expected 
to  have  a  hospital  for  children  in  connection  with 
his  practice,  and  that  as  Dora  seemed  deliberately  to 
have  chosen  to  adopt  the  vocation  of  a  nurse,  what 
would  be  more  fitting  than  that  she  should  have 
charge  of  it! 

Did  you  ever  dream  of  such  a  tangle,  you  dear, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  325 


straight-forward,  open-paged  Garden  Boke  ? 
me  who  was  to  blame,  the  man  or  the  woman  ? 
I  fear  me  it  was  the  silly,  selfish  woman.  The 
man  was  simply  attracted  by  an  older  woman,  as 
many  are,  lacked  imagination,  did  as  he  was  told, 
found  his  mistake,  and  shifted  Dora  to  a  maternal, 
cousinly  place  in  his  regard  as  she  had  bid,  and 
thought  all  well.  If  it  turned  out  to  his  own  advan- 
tage, who  can  blame  him  ?  Dora  would  not  have 
been  a  good  doctor's  wife.  She  is  too  rigid.  I 
am  sure  that  she  would  have  objected  to  extra  or 
irregular  meals,  insisted  upon  regulating  the  social 
status  patients,  and  had  a  large  and  prominent  door 
mat,  saying,  "  Wipe  your  feet  "  spread  down  during 
office  hours. 

Now  having  committed  herself,  her  pride  is 
forcing  her  to  go  into  training  for  a  profession 
she  only  half  likes  ;  and  I  truly  believe  that  the  ill 
luck  that  still  clings,  combined  with  the  old  New 
England  disease  of  unnecessary  self-abnegation, 
which  father  says  is  a  curse  left  by  the  witches 
the  Puritans  burned,  will  lead  her  eventually  to  go 
to  the  children's  hospital,  and  thus  literally  keep 
a  wound  from  healing  by  rubbing  salt  in  it. 

Ah,  me  !  suppose  I  had  hesitated  about  going 
to  England  with  Evan  and  put  him  off.  Would 


326  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

he  have  waited  and  come  back  ?  Of  course  he 
would,  but  then  I'm  glad  I  didn't.  What  non- 
sense I'm  thinking.  Evan  says  that  the  difficulty 
with  women  is  that  they  take  everything  person- 
ally, and  thereby  are  often  unnecessarily  tormented, 
which  is  perfectly  true. 


September  20.  Twice  lately  father  and  Evan 
have  been  over  the  hills  to  Chain  Lakes,  fishing 
for  black  bass,  and  had  great  sport,  father  getting 
the  most  exercise,  and  Evan  the  most  fish.  Father 
is  classic  and  conservative,  and  used  artificial  flies, 
while  Evan  took  a  choice  collection  of  small  toads, 
newts,  locusts,  and  big  grasshoppers,  which  evidently 
were  more  attractive.  Yesterday  I  went  with  them, 
riding  the  newly  trained  horse,  who  proved  com- 
fortably meek,  while  the  men  each  took  one  of  the 
grays. 

Ah,  the  colour  of  the  September  hills  !  Earlier 
in  the  season  we  look  for  form,  detail,  fragrance. 
Now  colour  seems  to  fill  the  eye,  and  we  store 
it  away  against  the  time  of  neutral  tints.  The 
trees  were  as  solidly  green  as  in  July,  only  here 
and  there  a  Virginia  creeper  winding  through 
them  like  a  gay  ribbon,  while  the  fragrance  of  wild 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  327 

grapes  sunning  upon  the  stone  fences  was  wafted 
everywhere.  The  colour  followed  the  ground;  Joe 
Pye  and  goldenrod  surging  in  great  waves  across 
the  open,  settling  in  shoulder-deep  pools  in  the 
hollows  and  breaking  into  a  golden  spray  of  giant 
sunflowers  over  the  fences  and  against  the  wood 
edges. 

The  dwarf  sumachs  were  beginning  to  glow  like 
live  coals  on  the  drier  hills,  and  here  and  there  the 
cardinal  flower  followed  a  brook  out  to  the  road, 
but  the  prevailing  colour  was  the  peculiar  purplish 
pink  and  gold  —  the  tint  that  heather,  gorse,  and 
broom  give  to  the  English  moors  and  Scottish  hills. 
So  many  people  go  out  and  admire  the  more  gaudy 
autumn  leaf  reds  and  yellows,  and  never  seem  to 
notice  this  intermediate  stage  between  summer  and 
autumn.  The  fishing  proved  too  intricate  for  even 
short  petticoats,  so  I  amused"  myself  by  following  a 
number  of  tempting  wood  trails  on  horseback,  and 
saw  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  much  to  father's 
delight,  samples  of  our  trio  of  game  birds,  wood- 
cock, quail,  and  ruffed-grouse  —  all  quite  tame  and 
seemingly  conscious  of  the  protection  of  the  close 
season.  They  had  better  be  on  guard,  however ; 
in  ten  days  or  so  fishing  rods  will  be  put  to  bed 
and  guns  will  appear.  Meanwhile,  the  local  sporting 


328  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

element  goes  out  at  night  semi-weekly  to  train  the 
young  hounds  to  trail  and  locate  fox  holes  for  the 
real  hunting  later  on. 

Evan  went  last  week,  taking  Bugle  and  Tally-ho. 
He  didn't  come  home  until  after  two  in  the  morn- 
ing, tired  but  happy,  four  promising  dens  having 
been  located.  The  hounds  were  brought  back 
this  morning  by  a  farmer  to  whose  house  they  had 
gone.  The  old  dogs  lead,  and  the  young  follow 
with  some  of  the  huntsmen  afoot,  while  the  others, 
especially  invited  guests,  choose  a  point  of  vantage 
and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  full  cry  as  the  course 
winds  in  and  out,  almost  every  owner  recognizing  the 
voice  of  his  own  dog.  When  the  practice  is  over,  a 
midnight  supper  is  eaten  at  the  rallying  point,  and 
the  pack  divided,  each  going  home  with  his  owner. 
Of  course  many  of  the  young  dogs  get  off  on 
crossed  trails  and  rabbit  tracks  and  keep  on  run- 
ning. 

These,  according  to  local  etiquette,  are  always 
returned  by  the  first  to  find  them,  the  tariff  being 
a  dollar  per  dog,  irrespective  of  distance  travelled. 
Of  course  the  whole  thing  would  seem  very  primi- 
tive to  the  costumed  chasers  of  tame  foxes  and 
aniseed  bags,  but  it  is  the  custom  here,  and  as  it 
meets  the  people's  needs,  what  would  you  have  ? 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  329 

I  used  to  go  on  these  trials,  and  I'm  going  again 
next  week.  The  mad  baying  of  the  hounds  over 
the  hills  and  the  break  to  full  cry  is  as  stimulating 
as  martial  music.  As  to  seeing  the  fox  killed,  that 
is  another  thing,  —  a  necessary  act,  but  not  for  the 
sight  of  Barbara. 


September  27.  I  have  left  a  number  of  plants  to 
go  to  seed  in  the  garden  in  spite  of  the  ragged  air 
they  lend,  for  the  sake  of  the  birds  they  attract. 
The  composite  flowers  are  the  favourites,  —  coreopsis, 
zinnias,  asters,  rudbeckias.  This  morning  a  line  of 
tall  Russian  sunflowers  that  head  the  vegetable 
garden  seemed  fairly  alive  with  the  darling  black- 
capped  goldfinches,  who  swung  to  and  fro,  perform- 
ing all  sorts  of  trapeze  feats,  as  they  picked  out  the 
seeds,  like  pins  from  a  cushion,  all  the  while  giving 
their  canary-like  call. 

Flower  form  is  becoming  indistinct;  the  later 
blooms  are  less  articulate.  The  anemone  Japonica 
is  the  single  exception  that  upholds  springlike  purity 
of  shape  and  whiteness  among  the  ragged,  twisted, 
or  primly  tufted  October  chrysanthemums. 

The  colour  influence  of  flowers  upon  the  mind 
has  never  before  appealed  to  me  as  it  has  this 


330  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

season.  For  many  months  I  have  gathered  and 
arranged  flowers  of  all  kinds  in  all  ways,  giving 
especial  thought  and  love  to  the  decoration  of  the 
table,  striving  to  group  the  flowers  according  to 
their  meaning  as  well  as  to  the  day  and  meal. 

Of  this  one  thing  I  am  sure,  that  the  rarest 
colours  are  those  that  are  least  effective  by  them- 
selves. Take  blue,  for  example.  We  have  fewer 
true  blue  garden  flowers  than  any  others  —  lobelias, 
centaurea,  larkspur,  a  lily  or  two,  forget-me-nots,  lu- 
pins, scillas,  hyacinths,  and  a  few  more,  but  to  be 
effective  they  need  white  as  a  foil.  My  blue  alcove 
would  have  been  dull  indeed  but  for  an  edging  of 
white  candytuft,  while  the  loops  and  spires  of  lark- 
spur seemed  out  of  place  amid  its  green  foliage  until 
an  underlying  mass  of  white  feverfew  came  in  bloom 
and  made  a  setting.  The  beauty  of  a  sapphire  is 
unrevealed  until  it  is  mated  with  a»  diamond. 

If  the  cultivated  garden  at  any  time  does  not 
yield  flowers  of  the  right  expressiveness  for  the 
flower  language  of  the  table,  the  wild  garden  will 
always  supplement  it.  All  summer  I  have  striven 
to  have"  the  breakfast  flowers  more  delicate  and  of 
paler  colours  than  those  for  the  later,  heavier  meals. 
In  May  white  narcissi  with  their  own  foliage  in  a 
slender  green  vase  at  breakfast,  rich  tulips  in  a 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  331 

solid  hued  bowl  at  dinner.  In  June,  pink  and  white 
rose  sprays  well  mingled  with  ferns  at  breakfast, 
the  bowl  of  gorgeous  crimson  and  rich  pink  roses 
garlanded  with  honeysuckle  for  dinner.  The 
trouble  is  very  slight,  for  each  arrangement  will 
serve  two  days. 

In  July  and  August  water-lilies  floating  close 
together  in  a  flat  glass  dish  of  conventional  lotus 
shape  were  my  morning  motive;  of  course  they 
closed  at  noon.  These  only  required  renewing 
semi-weekly,  if  I  was  careful  to  gather  the  freshly 
opened  flowers  with  stamens  thrown  widely  back 
to  tell  of  their  youth. 

In  June,  too,  the  common  field  daisies  almost 
rivalled  the  rose  in  usefulness,  combining  with 
white  and  shell-pink  poppies  in  the  morning,  while 
what  could  be  more  fitting  at  midday  than  an  old- 
time  blue  jar  filled  with  a*  bouquet  of  daisies  and 
scarlet  poppies  edged  with  ribbon  grass? 

The  colour  change  can  thus  be  rung  endlessly, 
every  day  and  every  rnood  suggesting  variations; 
and  so  many  lovely  blossoms  close  at  noon  that 
they  must  make  their  bow  at  breakfast  table  or 
not  at  all,  while  others  are  only  wide  awake  at  night. 

I  wondered  if  my  men  noticed  this  flower  whim 
of  mine,  for  they  said  nothing.  But  then,  men 


332  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

are  more  prone  to  speak  of  what  they  dislike,  and 
quietly  absorb  the  likable.  One  intense  August 
morning  that  promised  a  day  of  the  dizzy  heat  of 
which  the  locust  sings,  I  discovered  that  the  flowers 
picked  the  day  before  were  drooping  and  pitiful;  so 
hurrying  down  the  wild  walk,  I  gathered  a  great 
handful  of  ferns,  the  hay-scented,  lady  ferns  and 
maidenhair,  to  which  the  heavy  moisture  ef  the 
night  still  clung,  and  grouping  them  hastily  in  one 
of  my  frosted  vases,  set  them  on  the  table  at  the 
moment  that  Evan  came  in. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  my  head  aches  to-day  ? " 
he  asked,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  bit  of  wood  cool- 
ness. "  Nasturtiums  would  have  positively  irritated 
me  this  morning;  but  then,  your  breakfast  flowers 
are  always  restful,  Barbara." 

So  he  has  recognized  it  all  along !  Dear,  blessed, 
stupid  men,  why  don't  you  realize  what  your  slight- 
est word  of  praise  is  worth  to  those  who  love  you  ? 
I've  waited  quite  three  months  for  those  few  words. 
By  the  same  token,  —  for  it's  growing  cold  this  af ter^ 
noon,  —  I  must  make  haste  to  gather  a  great  jar  of 
Dahlias  and  red  geraniums  with  their  leaves,  to  sup- 
plement the  hearth  fire  we  shall  have  at  dinner  time, 
keeping  one  ruby  velvet  flower  for  my  hair. 

Effie   has  brought  in  the   tea,   and   said,   "  Mrs. 


COMMUTER'S  WIFE  333 

Corkle  bids  me  say  that  she  would  like  to  speak 
private  with  you  and  Mr.  Evan,  and  she  may." 

What  can  it  be  ?  Are  the  bread  lessons  too  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  master?  Is  it  the  "'ome-brewed " 
again,  or  can  she  be  wishing  to  go  back  to  Eng- 
land when  the  year  is  up  ?  I  thought  that  she  had 
seemed  happier  since  Effie's  coming.  Six  months 
ago  I.  should  have  welcomed  this,  but  not  now. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  home  comfort  concealed 
about  Martha  Corkle,  if  only  she  and  her  environ- 
ment were  not  somewhat  at  odds. 


XVII 
SEPTEMBER 

THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  MARTHA  CORKLE 

September  28.  Can  it  possibly  be  only  twenty- 
four  hours  since  I  closed  my  Garden  Boke  in  haste, 
and  left  it  on  the  window  seat  ?  Since  the  after- 
noons have  become  cooler,  close  before  dusk  I  find 
myself  lounging  or  writing  in  my  watch  tower,  as 
Evan  calls  the  latticed  window.  Through  its  dia- 
mond panes  the  garden  landscape  separates  itself 
into  miniatures  personal  and  intimate,  which  by  the 
opening  of  the  casement  merge  again  to  one  broad 
picture. 

Father  came  home  last  evening  a  little  after 
dark,  which  is  now  before  six.  He  had  been  to  a 
consultation  a  half-day's  drive  away,  but  instead  of 
seeming  worried  or  tired  he  was  laughing  heartily 
as  he  opened  the  door,  which  hilarity,  upon  seeing 
me,  he  subdued  to  an  exceedingly  quizzical  expres- 
sion about  the  nose,  such  as  his  face  wears  at  times 
of  special  content.  The  last  demonstration  of  this 
334 


GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE     335 

kind  happened  several  weeks  ago,  when  at  the  end 
of  a  discussion  with  one  of  his  book-mad  friends 
upon  the  subject  of  the  misnamed  and  impossible 
portraits,  which  had  proved  snares  in  the  path  of 
their  extra  illustrating,  the  Dominie  came  hurrying 
back  in  great  excitement  to  show  that  he  had  picked 
up  a  portrait  of  Nicholas  Culpepper,  hitherto  unget- 
table,  the  which  father  soon  proved  conclusively  to 
be  that  of  Rene  Descartes  misnamed ! 

Upon  my  telling  father  of  Martha's  request  for 
an  interview  in  private,  he  only  laughed  the  harder, 
while  Evan  took  the  matter  quite  indifferently, 
though  I  could  see  that  he  writhed  a  little  at  the 
idea  of  a  first  experience  in  coming  face  to  face 
with  an  uncertain  domestic  discussion. 

He  seemed  to  linger  an  unusual  time  over  his 
coffee,  and  I  was  obliged  fairly  to  drag  him  into 
the  den  to  finish  his  cigar,  while  father  retreated 
to  the  study,  his  eyes  shining  with  mischief,  and 
closed  the  door  in  a  very  ostentatious  manner. 

Evan  went  to  his  desk,  but  drummed  with  his 
fingers  instead  of  writing ;  I  tried  two  chairs,  and 
finally  curled  up  in  the  ingle  nook,  divided  between 
anxiety  and  curiosity. 

Presently  we  heard  Martha's  firm  tread  come 
down  the  hall.  Stumbling  over  Bluff  and  Lark, 


336  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

who  as  usual  were  lying  back  to  back  halfway 
between  the  doors  of  den  and  study,  she  made  a 
somewhat  sudden  entrance  without  knocking;  the 
jar,  of  course,  accounting  for  her  flushed  face. 

We  were  both  aware  of  a  difference  in  her  dress, 
but  did  not  dare  exchange  glances.  The  usual 
starched  and  spotless  apron  was  lacking;  she  wore 
her  Sunday  cashmere  with  cuffs  and  turnover  collar 
of  white  crocheted  lace,  fastened  by  a  large  brooch 
containing  a  Jubilee  portrait  of  the  Queen ;  while 
upon  her  sleekly  brushed  black  hair  that  was  almost 
guiltless  of  gray,  rested  a  lace  cap  of  staunch  Brit- 
ish build  ornamented  with  a  spray  of  red  roses  that 
formed  a  quivering  bowsprit  in  th«;  front. 

She  did  not  curtsy  as  usual;  she  did  not  smile. 
Instinctively  I  drew  a  chair  close  to  Evan's,  while 
he  asked  Martha  to  be  seated. 

"An'  thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Evan,"  she  replied, 
moistening  her  lips,  that  seemed  glued  together, 
"but  I  feel  easier  afoot  and  firmer-like  for  what  I 
'as  to  say." 

"Why,  whatever  is  the  matter?"  said  Evan, 
kindly,  rising  and  going  toward  her;  for  great 
beads  of  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead  and  she 
clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  continually.  "  111 
news  from  home,  or  are  you  unhappy  over  here  ? " 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  337 

"Worse  than  that,  Mr.  Evan,  and  I'm  shamefaced 
to  tell  it.  I'm  going  to  marry  Timothy  Saunders !  " 

"  Good  Lord ! "  cried  Evan,  checking  a  long- 
drawn  whistle  with  great  effort. 

"  Mr.  Evan,  sir,  it's  not  that  bad  as  you  need 
should  speak  so,  I'm  sure!  I'm  not  fifty-two  till 
come  last  Guy  Fawkes  eve,  and  many  an  older 
marries.  My  mother's  sister  Janet  she  took  her 
second  when  turning  sixty  and  her  third  full  five 
years  later." 

"  It's  not  you,  Martha,"  said  Evan,  pulling  himself 
together,  and  getting  his  laughing  muscles  well  under 
control.  "  I've  often  wondered,  with  your  face  and 
figure,  that  you  haven't  married.  In  fact,  once  when 
I  was  six  years  old  and  you  gave  me  a  whole  queen 
cake  for  not  telling  when  I  got  a  black  eye  in  a  fight 
with  the  butcher's  boy,  who  was  your  cousin's  son,  I 
seriously  thought  of  marrying  you  myself." 

"But  you  was  always  so  considerate-like,  Mr. 
Evan,"  Martha  interrupted,  dropping  her  stiffness 
and  a  curtsy  at  the  same  time. 

"  It's  Crumpled  Tim  I'm  thinking  of,"  continued 
Evan.  "  He's  good  as  gold,  but  not  the  sort  of  man 
I  should  think  would  take  your  fancy,  Martha.  He's 
lopsided  and  growing  rheumatic ;  besides,  he  has  a 
poor  opinion  of  women.  He  has  often  said  when 


338  THE   GARDEN    OF  A 

I've  asked  the  cause,  '  Maister  Evan,  I'm  done  on 
weemin.  They're  a'  that  feekle  and  flutterin'  that  a 
mon  can  neersomever  ken  where  they'll  licht  next. 
I'm  weel  cleart  o'  them.'  " 

"  Good  as  gold  is  a  true  sayin',  Mr.  Evan,  and  that 
without  references  to  the  eight  hundred  pounds  he's 
got  in  bank  from  twenty  years'  service.  His  rheu- 
matics is  much  improved  since  I  made  up  those 
proper  flannels  ;  'tis  the  hawful  shrinkin'  of  the  others 
(no  one  to  wash  them  thinkin'  like)  that's  had  much 
to  do  with  crumplin'  his  figger ;  not  that  I  hold  it  bad, 
legs  and  arms  all  bein'  there,  but  a  mite  disarranged, 
as  it  were.  As  for  women  bein'  changeful,  they 
generally  his  so,  and  worse ;  and  how  could  he  halter 
his  mind  until  he'd  seen  different?  Has  you  can 
certify,  Mr.  Evan,  and  Mrs.,  too,  I  never  flutters,  and 
where  I  puts  down  my  foot,  there  I  stands." 

"  Does  Tim  know  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
him  ? "  asked  Evan,  to  my  horror,  for  I  expected  that 
Martha  would  retire  in  high  dudgeon,  and  we  should 
altogether  miss  the  dramatic  particulars.  But  she 
was  too  desperately  in  earnest  to  heed  his  meaning. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Evan,  I  told  him  this  day  come  twelve 
of  the  clock  when,  lackin'  'ome-brewed,  I  give  him  a 
cup  o'  broth  to  hearten  him  for  goin'  across  country 
with  the  doctor  to  a  conversation  or  a  crowner's  quest 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  339 

or  sumat.  He  standin'  outside  my  window  where  the 
geraniums  be,  me  inside,  and  to  token  it  we  both  is 
now  wearin'  a  flower,  chance  he  hasn't  lost  his  in  the 
jolting."  And  Martha  pointed  to  a  red  geranium  sur- 
rounded by  a  tuft  of  parsley  that  garnished  her 
belt. 

"  Sit  down  and  tell  us  all  about  it,"  chuckled  Evan, 
fairly  pulling  her  into  a  chair  with  a  genial  determi- 
nation that  was  infectious.  "  It's  all  in  the  family, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  that  it  is,  and  who  else  should  I  tell? 
And  what's  the  good  of  having  news  an'  ye  must 
coop  it?  It's  like  cold  veal  pie  upon  the  chest  for 
supper,  the  same  being  over  old,  under  done,  and 
dry  o'  gravy. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Evan,  and  Mrs.  too,  not  to  be  partial, 
Tim'thy  Saunders  didn't  have  an  idea  o'  marryin', 
and  though  ailin',  didn't  know  of  what,  so  he  had  to  be 
told,  that  he  had ;  and  me  knowin',  I  had  to  take  the 
leadin',  bein'  my  plain  duty  to  a  fellow  creature,  so  to 
speak. 

"Two  months  gone  Tim'thy  fell  backward  in  his 
eatin',  for  they  fry  meat  to  rags  up  at  the  farm 
he  bides  at.  He'd  come  outside  my  window  when  I 
was  dishin'  stew,  dressin'  kidneys,  or  turnin'  out  a 
loaf,  and  sniff  and  breathe  heavy  like,  and  say,  '  Mrs. 


340  THE   GARDEN    OF   A 

Corkle,  they  don't  handle  victuals  'ere  like  they  did 
at  'ome.  E'en  the  mouthful  o'  bread  rises  to  the 
nose  and  leaves  the  belly  empty.' 

"There  are  some,  'owsomever,  that  doesn't  like 
durable  bread,  so  to  speak,  tastes  differin'." 

I  could  feel  the  scorn  wave  settling  on  my  guilty 
head,  but  Martha  never  paused. 

"It's  terribly  piteous  to  'ear  a  man  sigh  on 
account  of  poor  victuals,  and  it  shook  my  vitals.  So 
now  and  again  I  offered  him  a  tit-bit,  knowin'  you'd 
not  object,  and  he  always  eat  them  hearty. 

"Next  I  noticed  he'd  sit  in  the  stable  at  night, 
his  'ead  on  his  arms ;  and  the  same  bein'  lonesome 
and  unhealthf ul,  I  bid  him  be  free  of  the  settin' 
room,  and  have  a  game  with  Eliza  and  Delia,  me 
mindin'  my  needle  that  he  needn't  think  I  was 
wishful  o'  the  sight  of  him. 

"Then  one  day  when  he  flung  down  his  coat 
to  take  in  some  firm',  I  minded  it  lacked  every 
button,  and  his  braces  was  tied  up  with  strings, 
the  same  which  when  I  took  notice  of  he  turned 
very  distant  and  sour  and  drew  a  long  sigh  which 
would  start  one  a-shiverin'. 

"  So  it  dragged  along,  and  never  a  good  word  he 
said  in  return  for  the  flannels  which  I  gave  on  your 
hand,  Mrs.  Evan,  but  just  hintin'  the  sewin'  was 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  341 

mine,  only  growling  out  that  one  woman  is  tor- 
mentsome  enough,  but  two's  like  the  fire  that  never 
quenches. 

"  He  hadn't  passed  a  word  with  me  since  Sunday, 
when  to-day,  me  workin'  by  the  window,  he  stops 
and  stands  glowerin'  in.  I  passes  him  the  cup  o' 
broth,  which  he  didn't  touch  at  first  till  I  called  out, 
for  it  burned  my  fingers ;  and  when  he  did,  his  hand 
shook  till  some  spilled  over. 

" '  Whatever  ails  ye,  man  ? '  I  calls,  me  grabbin' 
to  catch  it,  bein'  inside  pantry  china  that  I'd 
snatched  up  heedless. 

" '  I  dinna  ken,  Martha  Corkle,  unless  it's  death 
a-beckonin'  me,'  he  said  most  doleful.  Then  I  seed 
my  duty  plain,  which  I  never  shirks,  and  I  up  and 
says,  '  Timothy  Saunders,  I  know  what  ails  you ;  it 
ain't  death,  it's  marriage !  You  needs  a  home  to  sit 
in  after  hours,  and  good  cooked  victuals,  and  buttons 
instead  o'  strings,  and  roomy  flannels ;  you  needs  a 
sip  o'  hot  Scotch  well  sweetened  of  a  winter  night, 
and  a  fire  o'  yer  own  to  take  it  by,  shut  from  remark. 
Tim'thy  Saunders,  you  needs  'Ome  Brewed!  You 
needs  a  wife ! ' 

"'It  may  be  as  you  say,  Martha  Corkle,'  he 
says,  meek-like,  'but  there's  not  one  as  would  take 
Crumpled  Tim,  lest  to  make  sport  of  him.' 


342  THE   GARDEN   OF  A 

" '  God  guide  you,'  said  I,  '  but  is  your  pate  thick 
as  a  Christmas  pudding  ?  Don't  you  know  I'm  ailin', 
too,  for  need  o'  a  man  to  do  all  those  same  things 
for  ?  I'm  goin'  to  marry  you,  Timothy  Saunders  ! ' 
and  says  he,  '  If  ye  will,  ye  will,  and  it's  no  for  me  to 
contradict  ye,  Martha  Corkle ;  and  I'll  go  further  to 
say  I'm  weel  content.' 

"Now  wasn't  that  just  grand  o'  him,  Mr.  Evan, 
and  Mrs.,  too,  with  no  disrespect  intended?  I 
trowed  he'd  need  more  convincin'  and  circum- 
ventin'. 

"With  that  he  fetched  a  grand,  loud  laugh,  and 
give  his  word,  and,  Mrs.  Evan,  I'm  sad  to  tell  that 
china  cup  is  broke !  clean  parted,  and  I've  made 
bold  to  say  we  each  has  kept  a  half ! " 

Martha  paused  for  breath,  while  Evan  shook  her 
hand  and  poured  out  somewhat  incoherent  words 
mingled  with  compliments  on  her  generalship. 

A  moment  served  her  for  recuperation,  and  she 
began  anew  in  answer  to  Evan's  statement  that, 
as  she  had  married  before,  she  probably  knew  her 
own  mind,  which  was  an  advantage. 

"  Before  has  no  concern  in  the  matter,  Mr.  Evan, 
for  a  body,  man  or  woman,  hits  the  real  marriage 
but  onct ;  gin  it  be  first  or  last,  there's  only  reely  one. 
My  own  mother  hadn't  her  own  mind  till  her  third, 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  343 

and  her  step-aunt's  brother  was  never  rightly  suited 
till  his  fourth,  and  he  over  seventy. 

"  I  am  lucky,  as  ye  say,  Mr.  Evan,  to  get  my 
choice,  early  in  life,  as  it  were,  which  might  pass 
for  the  first,  as  Corkle,  though  fairish  while  he 
lasted,  wasn't  o'  my  choosin',  it  b'ein'  brought 
about  by  the  cattle-show  and  cousins,  with  me  too 
tender-hearted  to  say  no." 

"When  are  you  to  marry  Timothy?"  I  ven- 
tured, with  visions  of  domestic  change. 

"Two  weeks  come  Wednesday,  if  it's  approved, 
Mrs.  Evan.  I  worked  that  all  hout  in  my  mind 
before  I  spoke  to  Tim'thy.  An'  the  doctor's  agree- 
able, we  could  take  up  house  in  the  floor  by  the 
stables  for  the  time,  the  same  bein'  quite  a  cottage, 
havin'  as  good  a  settin'  room  as  needed,  ::  cleaned 
well  and  freshened  up  a  bit  with  a  red  rose  paper. 
I've  told  myself  many  a  time  these  years  that  if  I'd 
ever  a  settin'  room  again,  it's"  red  roses  I'd  choose. 

"There's  a  good  bit  o'  unused  meadow  on  the 
north  side  where  I  could  raise  fowls  and  a  goose 
or  two ;  please  Heaven,  I'll  have  one  fatted  o'  me 
own  next  Michaelmas,  and  spread  the  linen  to 
bleach.  There's  no  such  pleasure  as  doin'  laundry 
when  you've  the  time  to  coax  it  clean,  so  to 
speak." 


344  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

"Laundry?   what  laundry?"    I  asked,  amazed. 

"Why,  yours  and  the  master's  and  the  doctor's, 
to  be  sure.  I've  rattled  on  that  heedless  that  I've 
brought  it  out  end  first.  I  thought,  and  no  disre- 
spect intended,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evan  both,  that 
Eliza  could  go  back  to  cookin',  her  bread  bein' 
approved,  if  her  kidneys  is  as  yet  underdone  and 
bacon  flabby,  while  I'd  handle  the  laundry  quite 
away  and  private,  besides  lending  a  hand,  as  one 
of  the  tenantry  might,  with  jam  and  Christmas 
puddings ! " 

-  "  Good  Old  Reliable ! "  exclaimed  Evan,  patting 
Martha  on  the  back ;  while  I  do  not  blush,  dear 
Garden  Boke,  to  say  that,  braving  an  eye  poke  from 
the  red  rose,  I  kissed  her,  —  the  hereditary  servant 
with  our  comfort  inseparable  from  her  own.  This 
act,  however,  she  promptly  discounted  by  saying 
with  a  suspicious  sniff :  — 

"Thank  ye  kindly  both.  One  aint  hexactly 
responsible  for  acts,  when  hexcited  by  talk  of 
weddin's.  For  Efne  she's  that  pleased  she's  near 
forgot  her  manners,  too,  on  account  of  me  asking  her 
to  be  bridesmaid,  which  belonging  to  his  family  is  suit- 
able, and  Timothy'll  give  her  a  new  gown  to  wear, 
her  savin's  bein'  small,  and  those  she  brought  from 
'ome  bein'  drawn  too  tight  in  the  front  o'  the  body." 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  345 

Exit  Martha.  Enter  father,  so  suddenly  that  he 
was  self-convicted  of  eaves-dropping,  and  tumbling 
into  a  chair,  rocked  with  laughter. 

"  Tim  told  me  this  afternoon,"  he  gasped. 
" '  Doctor,'  he  said,  '  Martha  Corkle's  going  to 
marry  me.  She  asked  me  this  morning.'  But  he 
put  it  differently  as  to  preliminaries.  It  seems  that 
he  has  admired  Martha  since  the  day  we  set  the  sun- 
dial, but  in  his  youth,  having  been  jilted  by  a  girl 
the  day  they  were  to  marry,  he  left  his  home  after 
swearing  '  by  the  hearthstone,'  which  he  considers  an 
inviolable  oath,  never  to  ask  another  woman  to  be 
his  wife. 

"  He  was  greatly  bothered,  and  finally  resolved 
that  he'd  pine  and  mope,  and  perchance  work  upon 
her  pity ;  and  I  don't  know  which  pleases  him  most, 
the  circumvention,  as  he  thinks,  or  the  winning  of 
Martha." 

This  insight  from  Crumpled  Tim,  the  woman- 
hater  !  So  each  one  takes  the  credit  for  the  result. 

"  Which,"  added  father,  blowing  his  nose  vigor- 
ously, "  I  believe  to  be  a  love  match  to  the  core,  in 
spite  of  the  contrariety  of  the  principals. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  Tim  asked  of  me  as 
'  a  token '  for  his  housekeeping  but  The  Orphan ! 

" '  Doctor,'  he  said,  a  comical  look  spreading  over 


346     GARDEN   OF   A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

his  features,  '  a  woman's  a  good  thing,  and  a  dog's 
anither,  and  I'm  weel  suited  ter  baith  in  the  same 
year.  Gin  a  year  agone,  I'd  an  ill  word  for  the 
wan  and  a  kick  for  the  ither.' " 

"  Barbara,"  said  Evan  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"  did  I  not  say  that  the  question  of  the  '  home- 
brewed' would  probably  adjust  itself?" 

This  being  during  our  three  married  years  his 
nearest  approach  to  "  I  told  you  so,"  is  additional 
proof  of  Evan's  superiority  over  his  sex. 


XVIII 
OCTOBER 

THE  YEAR'S  MIND 

October  18.  The  first  real  frost  came  to  the  garden 
last  night,  though  for  two  weeks  past  the  hoar  has 
silvered  the  lowlands  at  every  sunrise.  The  helio- 
trope hangs  its  blackened  head,  and  the  vigorous  nas- 
turtiums are  spilling  their  sap  as  the  season's  sacrifice. 
A  few  verbenas,  Margaret  carnations,  and  rosebuds 
alone  remain  of  the  summer  garden.  The  Dahlias, 
owing  to  protection,  have  gained  a  few  days'  reprieve, 
but  their  quality  is  impaired.  After  a  hard  frost  all 
flowers  droop  when  taken  indoors,  except  the  hardy 
old-time  chrysanthemums,  'whose  red,  yellow,  white, 
and  tawny  buttons  seldom  fail  to  outlast  the  month. 

The  pit  Is  finished,  and  comfortably  ensconced  in 
it  are  the  various  cuttings  and  the  tea  roses,  together 
with  the  first  instalment  of  potted  bulbs  for  winter 
blooming.  This  year  I  am  trying  Bermuda  Easter 
lilies  as  house  plants,  having  prepared  a  dozen  pots 
of  large  bulbs  that  after  being  buried  will  evolute 
347 


348  THE  GARDEN  OF  A 

gradually  through  the  pit  to  the  den  windows.  The 
violets  are  quite  settled  in  their  frames,  and  to-day 
Evan  is  wearing  some  in  his  buttonhole. 

Frost  is  never  welcome,  and  yet  without  it  one 
would  lack  the  courage  to  destroy  and  regulate  the 
garden  for  its  winter  sleeping  season.  Frost  bids  us 
pause  and  retrospect,  giving  us  time  to  note  the 
difference  between  the  good  and  illy  planned  before 
snow  obliterates  the  traces.  For  this  reason  October 
is  the  "  year's  mind  "  of  the  garden,  the  anniversary 
of  completion. 

Ah,  the  glitter  and  sparkle  of  the  mornings  and 
the  rides  down  to  the  shore  and  along  the  crisp  shin- 
gle !  I  never  care  much  for  the  bay  in  season,  when 
the  summer  people  use  it  for  a  bath-tub,  or  disport 
themselves  nervously  in  naphtha  launches  that  fret 
its  placid  surface.  But  when  the  October  winds 
have  scattered  these  and  the  gulls  return  to  circle 
and  call,  then  I  must  go  to  the  wafer,  for  my  heart 
answers  the  gulls'  notes  with  a  wild  cry  and,  like 
them,  has  its  time  of  venturous  free  flight.  Father 
goes  with  me,  and  often  we  do  not  speak  a  word 
after  the  lighthouse  boat  answers  our  signal,  but  sit 
and  watch  the  water  slip  off  the  oars,  in  the  complete 
companionship  of  silence. 

Walks,  too,  there  are,  long  walks  to  the  hill  country 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  349 

both  for  the  pleasure  of  motion  and  for  ferns  to  add 
to  the  wild  garden,  Evan  toiling  home  with  a  well- 
filled  pack  like  a  veritable  pedler,  while  I  carry  a 
fishing  basket  slung  over  the  shoulder  to  harbour 
more  delicate  plants.  For  alack!  a  bit  of  our 
favourite  woods  is  being  stripped  of  its  trees  and 
turned  to  a  quarry,  so  that  now  any  plants  we 
take  cannot  be  reckoned  despoiling,  but  rather  a 
rescue. 

Martha  and  Tim  were  married  yesterday  at  noon 
in  the  den,  and  Evan  gave  away  the  bride.  Martha 
would  have  preferred  a  church  wedding,  but  the 
suggestion  had  such  a  paralyzing  effect  upon  Tim 
that  she  quickly  abandoned  it,  wisely  remarking :  — 

"  It  may  be  just  as  well,  Mrs.  Evan.  I'd  not  be 
for  pushing  a  dissenter  too  far  !  " 

I  decorated  the  room  with  flowers  from  town,  and 
made  a  littb  bower  of  the  earliest  of  my  potted 
chrysanthemums.  Martha-  looked  really  superb  in 
a  black  silk  gown,  Evan's  gift,  and  a  reasonably 
decorative  white  bonnet  of  my  making,  for  her 
taste  in  headgear  is  not  to  be  trusted ;  while  Effie 
wore  a  darkish  blue  that  mediated  between  her 
fiery  hair  and  freckles. 

The  dogs  all  came  to  the  wedding  with  white 
bows  on  their  collars.  This  at  Martha's  request, 


350  THE   GARDEN   OF   A 

and  the  Anglican  Catholic  did  not  object;  while 
The  Orphan  acted  as  best  man,  sitting  close  to  Tim, 
at  whom  he  gazed  solemnly,  and  wagged  his  tail 
audibly  whenever  he  responded,  which  Tim  did 
with  full  swearing  vigour. 

After  the  feast  the  couple  were  to  have  gone 
down  to  the  city  for  a  few  days,  sight-seeing,  but 
the  cake  was  hardly  cut,  and  the  bride  toasted,  when 
Tim  seemed  to  grow  uneasy,  and  mumbling  some- 
thing about  Bertie's  having  no  hand  with  horses, 
edged  toward  the  door,  followed  by  Martha,  who 
explained  in  answer  to  questioning  looks  :  — 

"Thank  you  all  kindly,  but  the  thought  of  the 
town,  'twas  quite  enough  for  us.  Tim'thy's  new 
boots  bein'  over  small,  and  my  silk  gown  that  rich 
and  thick  'twere  a  sin  to  sit  down  in  it,  we'll  just 
slip  over  home'ards  to  the  'cottage'  instead,  and 
ease  us  of  them  and  have  a  cosey  cup  o'  tea,  and  no 
disrespect  intended." 

Sure  enough,  at  five  o'clock  Timothy  was  lead- 
ing the  grays  to  the  watering  trough,  the  same  as 
usual,  save  only  one  difference :  Tim,  the  erstwhile 
silent,  was  whistling  "  The  Campbells  are  Coming  " 
in  at  least  three  keys. 

As  Evan  always  cheerfully  predicts,  things  do 
adjust  themselves,  and  this  marriage  is  a  distinct 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  351 

gain  to  me.  Martha  in  the  kitchen  was  just  a  trifle 
oppressive.  Martha  in  the  cottage  will  prove  a  sub- 
stantial guardian  angel. 

I  said  almost  a  year  ago  that  if  I  was  a  ser- 
vant, I  should  not  care  to  live  with  but  one  of  my 
friends,  and  perhaps  not  even  in  my  own  house- 
hold. Now  I  have  decided  that  I  would  do  the 
latter,  because  I  think  that  a  masculine  logic  domi- 
nates here  that  might  be  worded,  "  Do  not  meas- 
ure a  servant's  capacity  for  toil  by  your  own 
necessities,  but  by  the  reverse  order  of  things." 
And  though  we  Americans  may  and  do  lack  the 
staple  comfort  of  hereditary  service,  we  can  do 
much  for  ourselves.  As  father  says,  the  great 
knack  in  domestic  service  is  to  begin  with  good 
stock.  Earn  a  reputation  as  a  mistress,  and  the 
outgoing  one  will  usually  supply  a  "  cousin "  to 
succeed  her.  For  this  reputation  I  am  striving  in  a 
comfortable,  leisurely  way.  •  But  I  feel  sure  already 
that  Effie  will  have  a  cook  up  her  sleeve  if  Eliza 
and  Bertie  ever  combine,  which  they  doubtless  will 
in  time,  as  they  have  a  melancholy  streak  in  com- 
mon which  they  seem  greatly  to  enjoy. 

October  19.  A  northeast  storm  following  black 
frost.  The  garden  is  laid  low  almost  a  month 
earlier  than  last  year.  Only  the  red-gold  wall 


352  THE  GARDEN   OF  A 

flowers,  the  last  tenants  in  the  bed  of  sweet 
odours,  have  withstood  both  chill  and  storm  and 
given  me  a  generous  bouquet  for  the  table,  at 
once  a  greeting  and  a  good-night.  A  greeting  for 
the  anniversary  of  our  return,  a  good-night  from 
the  garden. 

Evan  stayed  at  home  to-day  so  that  it  should  be  a 
festival  for  me,  even  if  the  storm  howled,  and  he 
has  drawn  me  a  plan  for  developing,  not  altering, 
the  wild  garden,  so  that  everything  we  add  may 
be  of  account,  while  I  have  revised  my  seed  and 
plant  lists ;  and  though  there  is  fair-day  garden 
work  for  a  month  yet,  we  cannot  always  have  a 
November  like  the  last.  Now  it  is  the  sowing  time 
in  the  book  garden,  which  we  intend  more  than 
ever  to  plant  with  perennials.  Blessed  gardens  of 
flowers  and  of  books!  Is  there  any  phase  of  a 
woman's  life,  either  of  joy  or  of  sorrow,  when  you 
will  not  strengthen  and  comfort  her? 

A  little  before  nightfall,  as  we  were  sitting  in 
the  ingle  nook,  half  dreaming,  half  conversing  with- 
out words,  father  came  in  hurriedly  with  a  package, 
which  he  took  to  the  study. 

In  a  moment  he  crossed  the  hall  and  laid  some- 
thing upon  the  mantle-shelf  under  Linnaeus's  por- 
trait, trusting  to  my  curiosity  to  take  it  down. 


COMMUTER'S   WIFE  353 

"This  is  my  gift  to  you,  Barbara,  the  year's  mind 
of  the  home-coming.  Open  it,  my  daughter.  It  is 
my  treasure,  and  given  for  an  heirloom." 

I  lifted  down  what  seemed  to  be  a  carved  wooden 
box  with  a  metal  fastening.  On  taking  it  to  the 
light,  I  saw  that  it  was  an  outer  case  with  a  broad 
silver  clasp,  and  contained  a  book. 

The  book  was  Dodoens's  "Herball,"  the  volume 
of  contention  and  introduction!  The  case  of  apple 
wood  was  made  from  the  broken  limb  of  the  Mother 
Tree,  a  narrow  border  of  violets  was  carved  across 
top  and  bottom,  while  inserted  on  each  side  were 
two  small  ivory  miniatures.  On  one  cover,  young 
mother  —  the  miniature  that  father  always  kept  in 
his  desk  —  was  beside  that  of  himself ;  the  reverse 
held  those  of  Evan  and  myself,  all  three  done  with- 
out my  knowledge.  The  clasp  was  engraved  with 
this  legend  in  Old  English  characters. 

"33le00rti  is  0fje  to  fcrfjom  it  is  giben  to  link  t&e 
twin  lobe  foitfj  tfje  olb." 

"  But  after  all,  is  there  such  a  thing  as  old  love  ? 
Is  it  not  always  young  ?  Look !  "  said  father,  and 
following  where  his  finger  pointed  through  the 
splashed  pane  and  across  the  pathway,  we  saw  Tim 
going  home  with  his  milk  pail  in  one  hand  and  a 
chubby  bunch  of  chrysanthemums  in  the  other 


354     GARDEN    OF  A   COMMUTER'S   WIFE 

followed  by  The  Orphan,  who,  unreproved,  carried 
his  muddy  feet  into  the  cottage. 

Martha  stood  at  the  door,  and  as  Tim  came  under 
the  porch,  she  took  off  his  dripping  coat,  and  stoop 
ing  —  kissed  him! 


'"THE     following     pages 

contain  advertisements 

of  a  few  of  the  Macmillan 

books   on   kindred   subjects 


OLD  TIME  GARDENS 

NEW  SET  FORTH  BY 

ALICE  MORSE   EARLE 

Author  of  "  Home  Life  in  Colonial  Days,"  "  Child  Life  in  Colonial 
Days,"  "  Stage  Coach  and  Tavern  Days." 

"A  Book  of  the  Sweet  o'  the  Year." 


Mrs.  Earle  calls  this  A  Book  of  the  Sweet  o'  the  Year,  and  it  might  well 
bear  the  old  Sundial  motto:  "I  mark  only  sunny  hours."  She  begins  her 
work  with  an  account  of  the  planting  of  the  Early  Colonial  Gardens,  dis- 
cussing the  favorite  flowers  of  the  Old  Time  Gardeners.  Few  of  us  there 
are  who  do  not  recollect  the  flowers  of  the  front  yard  which  was  our  for- 
bidden paradise  in  childhood.  The  illustrations  which  Mrs.  Earle  has 
gathered  together  are  from  photographs  of  ancient  gardens,  of  those  which 
show  the  taste  of  other  days  which  still  survives  in  some  families ;  also  of 
rare  old  flower  favorites  and  quaint  cuts  from  old  herbals,  the  attraction 
of  which  can  be  well  gauged  by  those  who  have  already  read  her  other 
works,  illustrated  with  the  same  devotion  to  truthful  archaeology  and  quaint 
interest.  The  stately  illustrations  of  the  Formal  Garden  and  the  equally 
charming  pictures  of  the  less  orderly  Herb  Garden  are  accompanied  by 
chapters  containing  a  full  account  of  their  making  and  uses,  their  folk-lore 
and  beauty.  Among  other  interesting  topics  are  Old  Orchards,  Blue 
Flower  Border,  Box  Edgings  with  all  their  delightful  sentiment  and  variety; 
Flower  Names,  Flower  Neighbours,  Sabbath  Day  Posies,  Winter  Gardens 
and  Posies,  the  Moonlight  Garden,  Joan  Silverpins  and  Tussy-Mussies,  In 
Lilac  Tide,  Magic  and  Mystery  of  Flowers,  Childhood  in  a  Garden,  and 
Dancing  Flowers  and  Flower  Dances,  are  chapter  headings  with  a  wealth 
of  pleasure  hidden  in  their  text. 

The  last  two  chapters  of  the  book  are  on  Sundials  and  The  Roses  of 
Yesterday,  which  remind  us  that  though  a  few  years  ago  the  Old  Time 
Garden  seemed  a  thing  of  the  past,  of  late  years  its  beauties  have  been 
created  again  by  the  genius  and  good  taste  of  the  few  to  whom  old  associa- 
tions make  a  strong  appeal. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

66  FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


Elizabeth  and  Her  German  Garden 

Crown  Octavo,  Cloth,  $1.75 


"  We  find  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a  whimsical,  humorous,  cul- 
tured, and  very  womanly  woman,  with  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  liking 
for  homeliness  and  simplicity,  with  a  wise  husband,  three  merry  babies 
...  a  few  friends,  a  gardener,  an  old  German  house  to  repose  in,  a 
garden  to  be  happy  in,  an  agreeable  literary  gift,  and  a  slight  touch  o< 
cynicism.  Such  is  Elizabeth.  It  is  a  charming  book." — The  Academy. 

"  Elizabeth  .  .  .  prevails  upon  her  husband  —  The  Man  of  Wrath  — 
to  let  her  go  down  to  an  old  neglected  country-seat  on  the  Baltic,  and 
fix  things  up  to  suit  herself.  For  one  thing  she  resolves  to  have  a  gar- 
den. On  this  matter  of  a  garden,  she  has  plenty  of  ideas  but  no  ex- 
perience, and  she  undertakes  to  realize  them  by  the  aid  of  a  gardenei 
who  has  experience  but  no  ideas,  except  the  general  one  that  Elizabeth's 
are  stupid.  Her  struggles  with  the  stupidity  of  man  and  the  perversity 
of  nature  are  amusingly  told."  —  The  Nation, 


THE  SOLITARY  SUMMER 

By  the  Author  of  Elizabeth  and  Her  German  Garden 
Crown  Octavo,  Cloth,  $1.50 


"A  continuation  of  that  delightful  chronicle  of  days  spent  in  and 
about  one  of  the  most  delightful  gardens  known  to  modern  literature. 
The  author's  exquisite  humor  is  ever  present,  and  her  descriptions  .  .  . 
have  a  wonderful  freshness  and  charm."  —  Evening  Post. 

"  Perhaps  even  more  charming  than  the  fascinating  original,  which  is 
saying  a  great  deal."  —  The  Glasgow  Herald, 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  books  that  has  been  published  for  many 
a  month."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


These  books  are  also  issued  in  a  handsome  edition,  each  vol- 
ume illustrated  with  12  full-page  photogravure  plates.  Price 
$2.50  each. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MTABL 

1998 


DUE  2  WKS  FROM  flAl  t  KhCEIVED 
REC'D  LD-URL 


Form  L9-50m-9,'60(B3610s4)<U4 


•V93g     Garden  of  a 
1901      commuter's   "wife 


University  Of  California.  Los  Ar 


L  007  375  108  3 


PS 
3364 

1901 


